Battle Royale, American Version, Season 31
by Riter544
Summary: Let the battle begin...again...[incomplete]
1. Awakening

**Author's Note:** Hello, readers. I won't delay you from jumping into my story, but I thought I'd preface it very quickly. This is officially a sequel to my last story, Battle Royale, American Version, Season 23 and as such takes place in the same universe. Feel free to read my last story if you wish, but I've done my best to make it so my previous story isn't a prerequisite (mostly because a lot of the writing makes me cringe when I reread it). There will be some references to that story, but I've tried to write this so anyone, both people who have cut their way through that season and those who haven't, can read and enjoy this current piece. If you feel out of the loop, but don't want to commit to reading a 250,000+ word story for background info, then check out the surveys some fans so very graciously filled out for me in the reviews section - there's plenty of tidbits about my story there. Feel free to comment, and I invite you to be as critical as you can, because I like knowing where my writing succeeds and where it fails. And as a final note, please be warned that this story will take me a LONG TIME to complete. If you're willing to make the commitment and stand by me and this story, then I promise to make it the best I can. Blah blah blah, matures themes, blah blah, do-not-own disclaimer, blah blah blah.

So...

Let the story begin...

* * *

Mike D (Boy #9) took a deep breath. Then he took another. He felt drowsy, but somehow restless. Mike D wasn't sure how long he'd been asleep, because his limbs still felt heavy and his foot was asleep, but he also felt like he could sleep forever and it wouldn't be long enough. An ache in his back suddenly surfaced in his consciousness, and he realized he was hunched over onto his folded arms. Mike D sat up and discovered he was seated in a small desk in what looked like a kindergarten classroom. There was a diagram of how to count to ten on the wall, followed by a depiction of the basic colors and then a list of the classroom rules, which included sharing and listening to the teacher.

It was dark inside the classroom, the only illumination shining down from a single overhead light. It cast shadows against the walls, and it was at that moment that Mike D realized he wasn't alone. Completely surrounding him were similar desks, and in each one lay an unconscious person.

"So, you're the first one awake," a voice said from in front of him. Mike D turned his head in surprise, noticing the outline of a figure standing at the head of the classroom.

"Go ahead," the figure said, "Turn on the lights." More overhead lights flashed into existence and Mike D recoiled and hissed in pain at the overwhelming brightness. He gritted his teeth and let his eyes adjust to the bright lights. His vision became less and less blurred and the woman standing before him became clearer. She looked like she was in her late twenties or early thirties, and she was dressed in a business-casual blouse and skirt. Mike D noticed that she was smiling, but there wasn't something right about it, like she was hiding a secret. She flipped some blond hair over her shoulder and her eyes zipped to the side as a low moan escaped someone else's lips.

Mike D took this moment to scan the people around him. He couldn't see all their faces, but he was able to recognize some on sight. There was Delilah's (Girl #9) fluorescent pink hair off to his right, and behind her were the soft snores of Felicia (Girl #11) slightly hidden behind her arm cast. Mike D continued to glance at each sleeping face, realizing he knew most on sight. These were his classmates.

But that meant that his friends were there too! Where were the other FLAs? That was what they called each other – the Future Leaders of America. Each one was an overachiever in their own right, taking part in sports, volunteer work, and elected office – anything to beef up their resumes for college. They ran the school, that's what it came down to. They were involved with everything, and therefore had a say about everything – any decision ultimately came down to them. And as much as they clung to each other, there was always the tension of competition among the group. On the surface everything was friendly, but Mike D knew that some members would do anything to come out on top. To Mike D, it always seemed like school elections would destroy the FLAs, but somehow, no matter who won, everything would return to normal. Or whatever it was the group considered "normal".

Truthfully, Mike D was still bothered about losing the presidency to another FLA, Kristy (Girl #6). That class presidency would have ensured his place at Harvard, but instead he lost, and he got wait listed. He'd managed to get accepted after his parents made another considerable "contribution" to the school, but that wasn't the point. He could have gotten in on his own, if he'd won. Hell, the only reason Kristy had managed to win was because of her boyfriend, Raymond (Boy #11). The kid had a reputation of being a major drug addict, but somehow he still had some sway over the brainless masses. He'd gotten all the rejects and underlings to vote for Kristy. He was bad news, and his presence made all the FLAs look bad - just because he dated one of them. Mike D was sure he wasn't the only FLA who thought so, but that's why being a FLA was so tough – it was all based on image. Mistakes from as early as junior high school could easily resurface and discredit you in future elections.

Mike D spotted both Kristy and Raymond among the unconscious. Layla (Girl #24), another FLA, was in the back row. Mike D's eyes widened when he noticed another familiar face silently dozing – it was yet another FLA, Noah (Boy #18). Mike D took a step towards him, but then froze, slowly moving backwards. He wanted nothing more than to march forward and wrap his arms around the sleeping boy, snuggling in close and returning to sleep. But they were both FLAs, and that meant that image was _all_ that mattered. The prejudice that came with being gay would override everything else they were. People wouldn't respect Mike D if they knew he was gay, and without respect, the rest of his life would be ruined. No candidacy for public office, no presidential campaign, all of his hard work would be for nothing.

Noah didn't understand. He wasn't public about his orientation, but he'd been pressuring Mike D for the both of them to come out together, to show everyone that homosexuals could be just as effective leaders as anyone, that being gay didn't make them any less respectable or powerful.

The two boys had recently broken up, which had been devastating to the both of them. Mike D hadn't ever felt as free as when he was with Noah, when they didn't have to worry about hiding their secret. And the first time they had sex, Mike D had felt so _warm_, so safe and secure. Reality always came back ruin everything, as it always did, but the real world didn't exist when the two boys were alone together, without the pressure of being the best, without the anxiety of maintaining their image of power.

Mike D always knew it wouldn't last. It couldn't. An unmarried candidate was the same as gay one in the eyes of the public – he knew at some point he'd need to take a wife, to bear some children, to appear like a normal human being. Mike D thought Noah understood that, but he didn't. Noah kept the relationship secret from everyone, just like Mike D did, but Mike D had no intention of that ever stopping.

The boy wanted nothing more than to take Noah on his campaign trails once he got old enough - to have Noah be his advisor, spending his days helping Mike D gain a good public opinion and spending his nights in Mike D's bed. He could understand why Noah would be upset at the insinuation that he could be an _advisor_ to an elected official and not one himself. But Mike D couldn't understand why Noah wanted to go public. It was committing social suicide, and for what? For the self-satisfaction of being judged as a gay man rather than a straight one? That's why Mike D had refused, and Noah decided to end it, saying that he couldn't be with someone who was ashamed of whom he was.

The split had caused both boys more pain than they would ever have admitted to anyone.

More people stirred, and Mike D saw the same expression on all their faces: _Where am I?_ He wasn't sure why they were all in a kindergarten classroom, never mind that there were so many of them. Mike D did a quick head count, numbering fifty students in all. Was this some massive outreach program? If that was the case, some people definitely didn't belong – it looked like the entire College Crowd was present, a group of kids who pictured college to be one large party and decided to start that fiesta early. They were known for their drunken raves and low-key experimental drug nights. In practically every way, they were the exact opposite of the FLAs, although there was never any real conflict between the groups. The only one of their group who was ever any trouble was the mouthy Nina (Girl #20). She was the typical beautiful bitch, who thought her good looks could get her out of any trouble. The problem was that she was usually right.

"That's it, everyone!" the woman said in a loud voice, her blue eyes flashing around the classroom in excitement, "It's time for your orientation! Wakey, wakey!" She clapped her hands twice, and Mike D noticed that nearly everyone was awake now. Mike D turned and sat down in his seat. He glanced to side and noticed Noah out of the corner of his eye. When he turned his head, Noah was staring directly forward, refusing to make eye contact.

"Where are we?" someone called out.

"I'm getting to that!" the woman yelled, her face immediately distorting in a furious snarl. She cleared her throat and fixed her shirt before returning the smile to her face. "I'm Miss Smith," she said, glancing around the room. Her outburst had placed every student on edge, and no one dared to breathe loudly. Mike D took another moment to glance around the room, noticing for the first time a few large racks of duffel bags lined up against the back wall.

"Who can tell me what the BR Act is?" Miss Smith asked, her eyes narrowing. Mike D felt himself stiffen. _The Program? No way, there was no fucking way!_ Chairs screeched the tiled floor as a few people jumped to their feet. A girl let out a single piercing scream before passing out onto the floor. A boy ran to her side, gently tapping her face to wake her up again.

"No takers?" Miss Smith said as if nothing had happened. She pulled out a slip of paper, "I guess I'll have to call on someone randomly." Her ice blue eyes scanned the page. Mike D clenched his hands, feeling his fingernails break the skin on his palms. _How could this happen to me? I'm supposed to grow up and become president! Why is this happening? _Mike D couldn't remove his eyes from Miss Smith's face. He watched her look up and down the page, unsure what we she was looking at.

"What's this?" she finally said, "What the fuck is this?!" Her voice became louder with each word. He watched her breathe heavy for a minute before screeching, "Guards!" The door to the classroom crashed open and military officers rushed into the room. A boy in the front row fell backwards in his chair from surprise. Each officer carried large gun in their hands, and their faces were emotionless, like they were carved from stone.

Miss Smith strode over to the guard in charge and shoved the paper in his face. "What's wrong with this picture?" she said, her voice causing the soldier to fidget slightly.

"Ma'am, that's the student roster," the man said in a quiet voice that seemed to quiver at the end. _He's afraid of her,_ Mike D realized.

"I know what the fuck it is!" Miss Smith said through gritted teeth, "Look at this! Boys number 9 and 19! They're both named Mike!" Mike D stiffened, the blood trickling from his clenched hands.

"Do you realize how stupid the average viewer of The Program is?" Miss Smith continued. The officer replied that he did not. "We can't have two contestants by the same name! No one will be able to follow what's going on!"

Miss Smith turned her attention to the students without missing a beat. "Both boys named Mike come forward." Mike D didn't even feel himself stand. He could feel all their eyes on him as he took one step after another. He knew Noah was looking at him, but he was the one who refused to look back this time.

_Oh, so now you care about what happens to me?_ Mike D was almost ashamed that the thought crossed his mind first, and that he was still harboring so much bitterness against his ex. But more than anything, the reason he didn't return the stare at Noah was because he didn't want anyone to see the terror hidden in his eyes. Especially not Miss Smith.

_I can't show any fear. She'll know if I'm afraid._

Mike D got there first and Miss Smith gave him a half-smile. Mike D wasn't very tall, in fact most would consider him short for a guy, but he had some added girth to him. Most of it was fat, but it wasn't how much you weighed, but how you through it around. Mike D wasn't even aware that Mike R (Boy #19) had arrived until he caught sight of something small to his side. Compared to Mike D, Mike R was tiny. Shorter than most with a small frame that made him appear closer to the age of twelve rather than eighteen. The boy was pale too, with dark circles beneath his eyes. His big brown eyes were wide open, but Mike D got the impression that no one was home.

"We're going to play a game." Miss Smith said, "One of you is going to live and the other will die." To hear it so plainly, Mike D felt a chill go up his spine. She'd said it like she was reading a grocery list, like both of the boys before her were items to check off before making her way to the register. Mike D turned and faced Noah, who had risen from his seat. Mike D could see the fear in Noah's dark green eyes, and he forced a smile. The hurt was gone, and suddenly the whole ordeal, the reason the boys had broken up, his image as a FLA, absolutely _everything_, seemed of so little importance.

_Don't worry,_ he wanted to say, _I'll give you a kiss in front of everyone, just like you always wanted._

"I have a number behind my back," Miss Smith said, "It's either a one or a two. Which is it?" Mike D opened his mouth to answer, but then closed it. He glanced over at Mike R who hadn't spoken a single word. Instead, Mike D noticed a patch of wetness slowly growing on the front of Mike R's pants. Mike D took a step to the side to avoid the puddle growing by his feet. He glanced up at Miss Smith's face, and she only smiled wider, completely unaware of the yellow piss slowly inching its way toward her high heeled shoes.

"Well," she said, "Which is it?" Mike D took a deep breath.

"One," he said. Mike R continued to stare forward, although he seemed to have run out of urine. Miss Smith pulled her hand out from behind her back, revealing a single finger pointed at the ceiling.

"Congratulations," she said, "You win." He didn't know where the gun had come from, only that she was suddenly carrying it. Mike D couldn't remember if she had been carrying it the whole time, but that seemed unlikely. The only thing that was important was that she had it. Mike D watched as she brought the gun up to his face and pulled the trigger.

-B-A-T-T-L-E-

Mike R blinked a few times as blood splattered all over his face. He slowly reached up a hand and dabbed at the spots on his cheek, pulling it away and seeing the red run down his fingers. His body told him to scream, especially when his eyes caught sight of the brain matter stuck to his T-shirt. But for some reason, the yell remained caught in his throat. He couldn't find the energy to let out the cry for help, and instead collapsed into the puddle of his piss, now mixed with the blood of the corpse a few inches away.

Someone did find the power to scream, and he did so, running to the front of the classroom and kneeling by the dead boy. Noah bit his lips as tears ran down his face. He stared down at the body that had been Mike D, unable to recognize the face due to the bullet hole that had ripped it apart.

"Why did you do that?" Noah asked, looking up at Miss Smith, "He won! Why did you kill him?!"

Miss Smith pushed some blond hair behind her shoulder. "Trust me," she said, "He got off easy. Within a day, half of you will wish to trade places with him. And the other half will be dead already."

Mike R thought she was lying, but a part of him wondered if Miss Smith was right. He tried to make himself stand, but his legs weren't listening to him. His jeans remained sprawled on the ground, slowly soaking up all the urine and blood gathering on the floor.

Miss Smith pulled a pen that was tucked on top of her ear and uncapped it. She slowly drew a line across the paper, removing Mike D from the list. She stopped for a moment, speaking out loud to herself.

"Micah," she said. Micah (Boy #7) immediately tensed up, his eyes widening with fear. "Is that name too similar to Mike?" She paused for a minute, tapping the pen against the paper.

"Why are you doing this to us?" Noah said in a low voice still kneeling by the corpse, "Who are you to condemn us to death?"

"No, Micah is different enough," she said at last. Micah released a breath that had been trapped inside his lungs.

"Don't ignore me!" Noah yelled, his voice bouncing off the walls, "Who the fuck do you think you are?" He was on his feet in an instant, a clenched fist aimed straight for Miss Smith's face. Mike R watched in awe as Noah launched an attack on the heartless woman. _What an idiot,_ he thought, _He's just going to get himself killed._

Mike R's eyes widened as Miss Smith caught the punch before it connected with the side of her face. She directed his fist around her body, sending Noah off balance. She spun around, like she was dancing, and Mike R's mouth dropped open. The look of contentment, of complete peace, covered her face as she slammed the boy against the blackboard and brought the pen up to his throat. She looked almost beautiful as she forced the boy to submit, but then her smile was back, and it ruined the perfection of her face.

"I'm the current record-holder of The Program, that's all," she said. The air was sucked out of the room as everyone gasped in surprise and forgot how to breathe. "I was in your position a few seasons ago. I managed to survive the attacks of my classmates and claim victory. And I did it in record time. So, let's calm down, shall we? None of you are a match for me."

Miss Smith dropped Noah and he collapsed to the ground in a painful slump. She stared down at him. "Consider yourself lucky," she said, "You're the first person to attack me that I didn't outright kill, even if you are a dirty little faggot." Noah's head sprang up immediately, his green eyes open wide with terror and surprise. He scanned the dozens of eyes that stared back at him from across the classroom, eyes that now seemed so unfamiliar.

"Now, let's get down to business," Miss Smith said and several guards moved forward. One dragged Mike D's dead body from the classroom, while two others pulled Noah and Mike R to their feet and shoved them toward their desks. Miss Smith opened her mouth to speak, but slowly her smile faded and her mouth closed.

"Damn," she said, "Now it's uneven." Again, she was just talking to herself, but it was loud enough for everyone to hear. "It's those damn higher ups fault. Giving me two kids named Mike. What else am I supposed to do but eliminate one? But now that tips winning in the girls' favor." She stopped, her eyes scanning the many faces staring back at her. "Damn," she said again, "They'll say I let the girls have an unfair advantage if one wins." She stopped again, this time, though, it seemed like she was looking for something specific.

Mike R froze when she gazed at him and she smiled again. "You, piss boy," she said, motioning for him to stand, "You're going to help me eliminate a girl." Mike R's legs gave out again and he crashed to the floor.

"Stand up or you die," Miss Smith said, the smile still wide on her face. Mike R wasn't sure where the gun had come from in the first place, or where it had gone when Miss Smith was using her pen, but it was once again in her hand and it was pointed at his head. Mike R gritted his teeth and pushed himself to his feet using the chair and desk for leverage.

"Now, is there any girl in here that you'd like to see dead?" Miss Smith asked. Mike R closed his eyes and tried to wipe the tears away from his face before she could see them. He shook his head slowly and then furiously so that she understood that he hadn't wanted this, he hadn't wanted any of it.

Mike R was a fan of horror movies, and he prided himself on staying completely calm while others screeched and hid behind their hands while gruesome images played out before them. But of course, here in a real horror movie, all he could do was piss his pants while trying to prevent himself from falling to the floor.

"Okay ladies, it seems none of you have done wrong by this boy," Miss Smith said, "Which is fine. But still one of you must die. So pick a number. One to twenty five. The girl with that number dies. Easy, right?" Mike R opened his mouth to say something, anything to get out of this. But his words choked him, and he slowly gazed around the room, taking in all the pairs of feminine eyes open wide in terror. _One of them will be dead soon, and it will be all my fault._

"What's the problem?" Miss Smith said, "Is twenty five numbers too hard to keep track of?" Mike R expected to hear a mocking tone in her voice, but if it was there, he didn't notice it. "Let's make this easier, okay?" Mike R returned his gaze to Miss Smith as she looked up and down the list in front of her.

"Would you like higher or lower than thirteen?" she said. Mike R clenched his jaw and tried to swallow, but his throat felt like it had closed up on him. With a quick hiccup, he finally managed the word, "High."

"Okay, now would like higher or lower than nineteen?" Miss Smith asked. Mike R took a breath – this was all happening too fast. He wasn't even aware what he was doing, narrowing down a list without knowing who was on it. He wasn't sure why this was such a problem for him, since he had never been very popular. Sure, he knew plenty of people here on sight, but none of them knew who he was. Mike R was just a pale little kid that easily disappeared in a crowd, and didn't crave many friends. He liked horror movies too much and that tended to creep most people out.

Everyone except his girlfriend. She was a school reporter, known for getting the stories that no one else knew how to get. Much like Mike R, she could easily disappear in a crowd, but she used that to her advantage, and blended in with the walls to eavesdrop in on conversations.

"We're waiting for an answer, piss boy," Miss Smith said, "Don't make this any harder on these ladies. I'm sure the anxiety is killing them."

"High." Mike R said again.

"Higher or lower than twenty three?" Miss Smith said, and Mike R prepared to answer again. He probably sounded like an infant to her, always saying the same answer. He didn't have to like what he was doing, but he was tired of looking like a special education student in front of everyone. He didn't have much dignity left, but it was all that was going to get him through this.

"Lower," Mike R said, and Miss Smith smirked to herself, amused like a scientist when his chimpanzee learned a new word in sign language. She gazed at the list and then looked at him square in the eye. Mike R wanted to recoil from her stare, but he tightened his grip on the chair and kept himself upright.

"That leaves three numbers – twenty, twenty one, and twenty two. Let's narrow it down to two."

"Twenty-two," Mike R said almost immediately, mostly because it was the last number he'd heard. He was tired of this game. He just wanted it to be over – the stare from all the girls was too much to bear. He wasn't sure how he was going to continue on, knowing that he'd been the reason a girl was dead, but he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

"Okay, Girl Number 20, Nina, please come forward," Miss Smith said. Mike R nearly collapsed. Nina? But she was part of the College Crowd! Sure, they were known for their parties and questionable activities, but they weren't anyone to mess with. Word had it that the College Crowd was blackmailing most of the senior class with things they did while at the infamous parties, and some even swore that the College Crowd had info on some faculty members too. Sure, on the surface, they seemed like a bunch of hedonists that wouldn't even make it to college, but they were dangerous.

And although it was always debated, most students agreed that it was Nina who ran the show. Some said that she had slept with most of the male teachers and even the principal, and that she kept them all in her back pocket for her use. There was never any proof, but the talk was enough for people to steer clear.

Mike R glanced behind him and realized someone else was standing. It was another person from the College Crowd, Riley (Boy #6). He shook his head back and forth slowly, his eyes narrowed onto Mike R's tiny frame. There was no way anyone from that group would forgive him if he was the reason Nina died. He couldn't pick her, no matter what.

"And please step forward Girl Number 21, Selene," Miss Smith said.

"NO!" a scream bounced off the walls and caused nearly everyone in the room to jump in surprise. It took a minute for Mike R to realize that he'd been the one to yell. Selene, his girlfriend, the school reporter.

"Mike," Selene said in a voice barely above a whisper. She walked to the front of the class, unable to stop the tears from flowing down her face. Mike R couldn't believe what was happening. There was no way he could condemn his girlfriend to death. She was the only one who didn't complain when they'd watch scary movies for the twelfth time, the only one who somehow found his childish frame and pale skin attractive. She was his first girlfriend, and the only true friend the boy had ever had. There was no way he'd let her die.

But if he chose Nina, then he'd automatically have five other people coming after him for killing the leader of their club (although it was more like a gang). The College Crowd wouldn't let him walk away scot-free – hell, he was as good as dead if Nina died.

"Make your choice," Miss Smith said, a wide smile on her face. She clearly liked the soap opera playing out in front of her eyes. Mike R paused. How would he continue living knowing that Selene died because of him? He couldn't. That's what it came down to – without Selene, Mike R would fade out of existence. But if he saved Nina, would the rest of the College Crowd reward him? Would they protect him out there?

Mike R shook his head. That was absolutely ridiculous, to think that they would thank him for saving Nina. They were dangerous, with or without Nina. Basically, whomever he chose, Mike R was going to die because of it.

"Her," Mike R said pointing at Nina, "Kill her."

Many things happened at once. With a roar, Riley launched himself at Mike R in abandoned rage. Nina cried out in fear and dropped to her knees, her mouth opened wide. Miss Smith pushed Selene to the side and rushed down the aisle. Rushed isn't the right word, she flew down the aisle, like a delicate flower. She grabbed Riley right before he reached Mike R and with a single deft move threw him to the ground. She cocked the gun and placed it to his temple.

"I am so fucking _sick_ of you kids," she said, the snarl returning to her face, "I don't care if you want to kill each other. But you _will_ do it out in the playing field. So sit down and shut the fuck up." She pressed the gun to his head, like she was trying to shove the barrel into his brain. Riley opened his mouth to scream but nothing came out.

"I won't kill you," Miss Smith hissed, "Because I can't afford any more deaths. But I'll put you in so much pain, I'll make you wish you were dead." She removed the gun from Riley's temple, a circular indentation where the barrel had been.

"Okay, children, it's time to sit down and pay attention," Miss Smith said as she moved to the front of the classroom. Mike R finally allowed himself to collapse back into his chair. From his seat he saw Nina still in her kneeling position, her mouth open in a silent scream. It took a moment, but Mike R finally saw the pen sticking out of the top of her blond head. Miss Smith walked by, gripping the pen and yanking it from the girl's skull in one quick motion. She used the pen to make another line on her list of students, her hand becoming red and sticky.

"It's time to explain the rules."

Current Danger Zones: none

Pending Danger Zones: none

(48) Contestants Remaining


	2. Game Start

Hank (Boy #15) sighed in his seat. What a nuisance this whole thing was. He gazed around the kindergarten classroom, taking in the facial expression of everyone who remained. Some couldn't remove their eyes from the trails of blood leading away from the classroom after the corpses had been dragged out. Some people stared at the floor, and looked extremely pale. Others looked ready to vomit from the gruesome deaths that had just taken place, or merely just sick from the anxiety racking their bodies.

Boy Number 15 was none of the above. Arrogant wasn't the right word – more like confident. Dead bodies were a part of his job, part of his lifestyle. Hank was, for the lack of a better word, a hitman. An assassin. He was trained since he was a small child – martial arts, marksmanship, espionage. The explanation was simply that no one would expect a child to be a trained killer – Hank could definitely understand that sentiment. There were places children could go that they would go unnoticed, information they could gather with little difficulty. Hank played the part, and he did it well.

"Some of you may have already noticed the collar you all wear around your necks," Miss Smith said off-handedly. Hank, of course, had noticed the collar. It was always important to be aware of yourself and your surroundings, especially as a hitman. You needed to know when to make your move, when to escape, and the easiest path to do both. What kind of second-rate assassin would Hank be if woke up after being drugged and didn't notice the collar around his throat?

Most of the other students, however, immediately reached up and began to gingerly finger the metal ring. Hank heard a few gasps as people realized they'd been tagged. Hank wasn't bothered by simple observations like the collars – he was far more interested in the duffel bags on the other side of the classroom. Whatever they contained were much more important than the classroom or the two dead kids.

"Each collar contains a bomb, that explodes when it receives the correct signal," Miss Smith said. Hank wasn't really expecting a bomb to be strapped to his throat, but it made sense to him. A threat of death was always the best way to get people to do what you wanted. With the bomb collars, every student was at the mercy of The Program.

"Each of you will be given a duffel bag," Miss Smith continued, "Inside is bottled water, rations of food, a map of the playing area, a compass, a pocket watch, a list of the students, a highlighter, and, of course, a designated weapon." Hank grinned to himself. His intuition had been spot on – those duffel bags were the most important objects in the classroom. They would decide the sole contestant that would live.

"The weapons have been assigned to your number, and have been randomly selected before you all became contestants," Miss Smith said, slowly pacing the area in front of the desks. She didn't seem to mind the fact that her high-heeled shoes were strolling through thick puddles of blood. "There has been no favoritism in weapon assignment. We didn't give better weapons to better fighters, or vice versa. This game is all about chance, and opportunity. You do what you can with what you've got. Sometimes you get lucky, and sometimes you die."

Hank was listening with most of his attention, but with the other part he began to scan the other students sitting in the classroom. Most seemed to be caught in denial, shaking their heads and crying. But not all of them. Hank reminded himself of Rule Number One: identify the threats in any situation. He could see them too. The people who let the desperation take over. The people who felt their reality begin to snap. The people who, like Hank, thirsted for the thrill of the hunt, the exhilaration of victory.

"Weapons range from blades to guns to survival equipment. Use what you are given to the best of your ability, because you will find little else." Miss Smith moved a few soldiers to the side and pulled an easel in front of the classroom. Hank cocked his head slightly to side in interest. She pulled a flap back, revealing a square map. In the top left corner there was a smaller square numbered "1". The square to its right was numbered "2" and this continued all the way down to square "64". Eight rows and eight columns, just like a checkerboard.

"This is the playing field," Miss Smith said with a bored sigh, "We are located here in the exact center: square 28. To the west you see that mountains have been labeled and to the east is a border of cliffs. We're located in a basin between this mountain range and these cliffs overlooking the ocean." Miss Smith pointed to both borders as she said them.

"There is a river leading down from the mountain that pools into this lake," Miss Smith continued, pointing to the northwest, and then pointing to the southwest, "And this is a road that leads down from the mountain range. It runs into the small village we're currently located in." Miss Smith pointed to the village marked halfway between the mountains and the cliffs. Hank noticed that while square 28 was the center of the whole playing field, it was on the northern border of the village.

"Don't be misled by the road, however," Miss Smith said, "While it leads directly into the western side of the town, it also runs around the circumference, and there's another part of the road that leads into town from the eastern side. If you follow the road, you could walk in circles around the town over and over again."

Hank was already committing the map to memory. It was pretty easy - the cliffs were only on the east border, so it was every multiple of 8. The same could be said about the mountains on the west border, only it started with the number 1, so it was every 8 numbers after that – 1, 9, 17, etc. Simple math wasn't a problem for Hank - he was going to have more trouble remembering which numbers contained the lake and the village.

"The rest of the field is covered in forests," Miss Smith said, "There are scattered houses along the cliffs and some, obviously, inside the village, but don't expect much. They have been gutted of all items, gas, electricity, and water. All you have to survive on are the duffel bags."

Miss Smith moved away from the map and the soldiers quickly shuffled out of her way. Hank closed his eyes, trying to reproduce the map inside his mind. He opened his eyes, realizing he was still getting a few numbers wrong in which the village was located. But it wouldn't be much longer until he had the whole thing memorized.

"Over the course of the next three days, I will be making announcements," Miss Smith said, "I will inform you, among other things, which zones will become danger zones. You don't want to wander into a square that's an activated danger zone – they will instantly detonate the bomb in your collar, so pay attention to which squares are off limits."

Hank could see some students touching the collars again, either consciously or unconsciously. The danger zones weren't as lethal as Miss Smith would have them all believe, in Hank's opinion. They were more likely a means to herd the students into each other and increase fights. And to drive some timid contestants out of hiding.

"Square 28 will be a constant danger zone once the last of you leaves this building. So take a good look around – only one of you will ever see the inside of this building again." Miss Smith chuckled at that statement as several students began to scan the surroundings. Hank noticed that a few of them paused at the duffel bags, like they were seeing them for the first time. He sighed.

"You all have three days to declare a winner," Miss Smith said as she crossed her arms and stared at the faces in the crowd before her, "Three days to make sure that everyone else in the playing field is dead. If, after 72 hours, there is still more than one person alive, every collar detonates. No one wins. Also, if 24 hours goes by without a single death, all the collars detonate. Again, no winner."

Miss Smith paused, as she glanced at each face. In every case, that person refused to stare back at her, their eyes immediately falling to the red-stained tile floor.

"Is that everything?" Miss Smith said, once again thinking out loud. She turned to one of the soldiers, "Did I miss anything?"

"No, ma'am," the man replied immediately.

"Do any of you have any questions?" Miss Smith said. No one spoke. Some looked like they were holding their breath.

"What were you?" Hank said, before he knew he was saying it.

"What?" Miss Smith said, her eyes narrowing on the boy.

"What number were you?" Hank said, a nervous smile covering his face.

"She was Girl Number 25," a voice said from the other side of the room. Hank glanced over and saw that another boy was standing. Hank couldn't recall his name, but he was surprised that the boy knew something that obscure.

"It seems I have a fan," Miss Smith said, a wicked smile on her face.

"My name is Zeke," Zeke (Boy #22) said and he bowed his head slightly, "It's an honor to be in your presence."

"Thank you very much, Zeke," Miss Smith said in reply.

"How many people did you kill?" Hank said, watching Miss Smith's reaction to his questions. The woman returned her attention to Hank, her blue eyes beginning to hold some contempt. Zeke opened his mouth to answer, but Miss Smith silenced him with a hand.

"It doesn't matter how many I killed," Miss Smith said, "I was the last one alive. And I hold the record."

"So, did you luck into it?" Hank said, reclining slightly in his tiny chair, "You know, let someone else kill everyone and then pick them off yourself?"

Miss Smith's face scowled at the boy as she said, "That's not the way I won. But even if it is, who cares? At the end of the day, I'm still the winner. I'm still alive."

"Sure," Hank said, reclining a little further, pushing himself to the edge, "If you don't mind winning like a coward."

"Coward?" Miss Smith said, her voice screeching the word. Hank could feel the air slowly sucked into the lungs of everyone else in the room, and held there in fear. Even the soldiers looked terrified of finding out what would happen next.

"You've already said none of us would stand a chance against you," Hank said, slowly rising to his feet, "You wouldn't have a problem proving yourself to me, would you?"

Hank was already moving before he finished the question. He'd seen the subtle movement of her hand as she reached back for her gun. He rushed at her, swinging the tiny chair at her body. The chair struck her in the chest, and she bounced back, recoiling from the strike. Before Miss Smith could recover completely, Hank had reached her and grabbed the hand holding the gun. A girl screamed at seeing the gun pointed in her direction and she ducked under her desk.

A quick twist of her wrist and Hank forced Miss Smith to drop the gun. She winced in pain and jumped back as Hank reached down for the firearm. A sound caught his ear and he pulled his hand back just as a knife struck the tile in front of the gun – a knife that would have easily skewered his hand. Hank recognized it as a throwing knife, small and easily concealable. He stood and stared at Miss Smith, both of her hands holding three knives each.

"You're pretty good," Hank said.

"If you make it back here," Miss Smith said with a slight grin, "We can find out who is better." Hank stared out at the desks, at all the faces staring at him.

_This is how it feels_, he thought,_ This is what it feels like to stand here, and for them to still be there._ He could see the way they looked at him. They knew he was a threat – that he could hold his own against a previous Program winner. None of them would trust him.

Hank wouldn't want it any other way.

-R-O-Y-A-L-E-

Selene (Girl #21) couldn't believe what was happening. This was like some horrible dream that felt uncomfortably real. She kept pinching her arms, waiting to spring up in her bed, her long brown hair wrapped around her head. And as she untangled herself, she'd think back to nightmare she'd imagined, how real everything had looked, how she could still almost smell the blood congealing on the floor.

But Selene couldn't wake up. She pinched herself until her eyes watered, but there was still no change. She sat in her seat, watching as the boy slowly moved back to his desk, taking the chair he'd thrown with him. He'd gotten the gun away from Miss Smith, and he'd nearly grabbed it. The boy had already leaned over and picked up the gun, much to Selene's surprise. But he returned it to Miss Smith without any trouble. It had looked so easy when he attacked, but Selene could recognize skill when it was displayed in front of her. He was definitely someone to avoid.

"Are there any other questions?" Miss Smith said. Selene looked at the woman, shocked to see that the six knives she had held had vanished. Where was she hiding all her weapons? Selene pictured a rocket launcher hidden somewhere underneath her shirt. The girl stiffened slightly, remembering not ten minutes before, how she had stood in front of the classroom next to Nina (Girl #20), as Miss Smith paused right behind her. The woman was a trained killer, and she'd stood inches away from Selene. That made the girl's blood turn cold, and she began to fiddle with her hair.

It was a nervous tic of hers, twirling hair between her fingers. It gave her some bizarre form of comfort, and that was really the only reason she'd grown her hair so long. Some of her friends called her Rapunzel, and she liked the idea of her long hair being the only means of reaching her. It sounded so romantic - at least it did to Selene.

"Why us?" Selene said, her voice cracking in fear. She wasn't sure what had made her speak, maybe because she was pretty sure no one else would be dying in the classroom. Hell, if that boy could attack Miss Smith and somehow stroll his way back to his seat, Selene refused to be scared of asking a question.

"Why?" Miss Smith said, her expression one of complete surprise, "Who cares about the why? You've all been honored by the government!"

Selene couldn't help but stare at Miss Smith, her mouth slowly dropping open. The woman was completely insane! Honored? This wasn't some kind of award, it was The Program. The government issued game that forced high school seniors to fight to the death – the ultimate reality game show.

"If the government was truly honoring us," the boy named Micah (Boy #7) said, "They wouldn't be trying to kill us."

"The government isn't trying to kill you," Miss Smith said, her face scowling once again, "The only people you have to worry about are the people in this room. The government hasn't hired anyone here to murder you. You kill each other. That's the way The Program works."

"No one here would kill another person if the government wasn't forcing us to!" Micah said, his eyes suddenly filled with hate. Selene glanced over at the boy who had attacked Miss Smith. He was chuckling to himself.

"Do you really believe that?" Miss Smith said, her face contorting into a patronizing smile, "Take a look around the room, little boy. Not everyone seems to hold your same ideals." It looked like Micah was too scared to do what she instructed, but he slowly turned his head, taking in the stares of all the remaining students.

"Even if you're right," Miss Smith said, turning his back on him, "Even if every single person in this room is the little angel you think they are," She paused for a second, "Don't you want to know if you're worth it?"

Micah opened his mouth to speak, but the closed it. Selene stopped twirling her hair, her body frozen. What was it she was witnessing? Miss Smith had both hands folded behind her back, the fingers intertwining. She glanced upwards toward the ceiling. Even with Miss Smith's back towards the rest of the class, Selene could tell the woman was drifting into her memories.

"Haven't you ever wondered how much your life is worth?" Miss Smith said, turning back around, addressing the whole class.

_She looks almost normal,_ Selene thought as she gazed at Miss Smith's face. At some point, this woman had been ordinary. _Where did she lose her mind?_

Selene was almost too scared to know the answer. Mostly because she had an idea. If Selene somehow managed to survive the whole game, would she become like Miss Smith? That was a terrifying thought, almost as scary as realizing The Program was getting ready to begin.

Miss Smith glanced at her watch, her demeanor once again returning. She smiled and stared at the students, flipping some blond hair over her shoulder. She took a long breath through her nose and held it for a second, before exhaling the same way.

"It's almost time," Miss Smith said, "Any other questions before we start?"

"I got one," a boy said while raising his hand and then lowering it. Selene recognized him as Tobias (Boy #21), one of the College Crowd. He began speaking again before Miss Smith acknowledged him. "The two dead kids – did they have duffel bags too? Because I want them." Tobias paused for a second as Miss Smith glared at him. "You know, since they don't need them anymore."

_Is he some kind of idiot?_ Selene wondered as a silence settled over the classroom. Maybe it seemed like to some less observant people that the boy was acting arrogant, or maybe that he simply didn't care about death. But Selene could see through his façade. Everyone was giving him too much credit – he was stupid. The strange thing was - Selene noticed everyone else from the College Crowd was watching him very carefully. She knitted her brow, wondering why the rest of them were paying so close attention to the moron. She glanced back at Tobias. Was she wrong? Was he hiding more than she could see?

"Fine, you may have one – the boy's." Miss Smith said, "I guess there's no reason to let the bags go to waste."

"Can't I have both?" Tobias said, "It was my idea."

"No," Miss Smith said simply. The boy pouted.

"Why not?"

"Because I said so!" Miss Smith said, her voice a roar. Tobias opened his mouth to say something else, but then decided against it, sulking in his seat instead. Selene watched him very carefully. If his stupidity was an act, it certainly was a good one.

"Soldier!" Miss Smith spun around, focusing on one of the men. He stood slightly taller and clicked his heels together, saying "Ma'am!"

"Pick a number, sir," she said, "And make it a good one."

Selene froze. Was someone else going to die? She held her breath before her brain took over once again. No, this wasn't another death – this was about the other bag. One dead boy, one dead girl. One extra bag to a boy, one extra bag to a girl. Even – it all balances out.

"Twenty-five, ma'am," the soldier said. Miss Smith turned to address the class, but then stopped and glanced back at the uniformed man. He seemed to stiffen under her stare, but she smiled at him.

"Good number," she said before returning her gaze to the class, "Okay, Girl Number Twenty Five – you will receive the other extra bag."

"I should get them both," Tobias muttered loud enough for everyone to hear. It looked like Miss Smith was going to yell at him again, but she sighed and stared down at the floor, the blond hair hiding her face from view.

"I fucking hate kids," she said in a low voice. A silence settled over the entire classroom. Selene took shallow breaths, worried that some loud noise would draw attention to her. All she wanted to do was disappear. She closed her eyes, trying to force herself to vanish. She could blend in with the background, just like when she'd eavesdrop for the school paper. All she needed to do was disappear, and everyone would forget about her, and Selene could escape.

"Ma'am," a soldier said, breaking the silence. Selene's eyes popped open in a panic. _No,_ she thought, _It can't start now. This can't be happening!_

"It's time to begin," Miss Smith said, her smile too wide to be natural. Selene started shaking her head, tears beginning to stream down her face. She began to hiccup as her cries became louder and louder.

"Make me proud, little warriors," Miss Smith said above Selene's sobs, "Make me proud."

List of Contestants (last names withheld)

Boys………………………………………………….…Girls

Boy #1 – Kyle……………………………………..Girl #1 – Yvonne

Boy #2 – Scott…………………………………….Girl #2 – Barbara

Boy #3 – David……………………………………Girl #3 – Heather

Boy #4 – Neil……………………………………..Girl #4 – Isabelle

Boy #5 – Adonis……………………………………..Girl #5 – Dawn

Boy #6 – Riley……….…………………………….Girl #6 – Kristy

Boy #7 – Micah…………………………………….Girl #7 – Tonya

Boy #8 – Spencer……………………………………Girl #8 – Maya

Boy #9 – Mike D. (dead)…………………………Girl #9 – Delilah

Boy #10 – Wyatt…………………………………Girl #10 – Adrienne

Boy #11 – Raymond……………………………….Girl #11 – Felicia

Boy #12 – Ahmed…………………………………..Girl #12 – Noelle

Boy #13 – Jacob………………………………………Girl #13 – Joy

Boy #14 – Dwayne…………………………………..Girl #14 – Claudia

Boy #15 – Hank……………………………….…….Girl #15 – Meredith

Boy #16 – Oliver……………..…………………….Girl #16 – Tabitha

Boy #17 – Chase……………………………………….Girl #17 – Sabrina

Boy #18 – Noah………………………………………..Girl #18 – Jillian

Boy #19 – Mike R. ………………………………………..Girl #19 – Bridget

Boy #20 – Logan………………………………………Girl #20 – Nina (dead)

Boy #21 – Tobias…………………………………….Girl #21 – Selene

Boy #22 – Zeke…………………………………………….Girl #22 – Alexa

Boy #23 – Phil……………………………………………Girl #23 – Paige

Boy #24 – Evan………………………………………………Girl # 24 – Layla

Boy #25 – Lance…………………………………….……Girl #25 – Kiki

Let the battle begin…again…

Current Danger Zones: none

Pending Danger Zones: 28

(48) Contestants Remaining


	3. Answers To Our Prayers

He wasn't exactly sure where he was. Phil (Boy #23) had left the village behind him. The houses, cottages, and shacks all managed to remind him of people, and that was the last thing he wanted to think about. He needed to clear his head, to forget all about the other contestants and The Program for a little while. Phil needed to pray.

The boy had gone northwest and was safely hidden somewhere in the woods, perhaps in square 14 or 15 – although Phil wasn't completely sure. He knew he needed to be alone, to allow himself to meditate on the current situation and wait for his answer. It was what he always did when faced with a tough decision. The answers didn't appear magically, or even right away, but they made themselves known soon enough. And with so much confusion running around inside Phil's head, prayer seemed like the best action for him.

The moon was high in the sky and provided enough light to travel through the forest. Shadows surrounded the boy on all sides, but Phil hadn't been afraid of the dark for a long time. God was his light, so there was nothing to fear in the darkness. It was metaphorical of course, but picturing a beam from the heavens shining down to light Phil's path was a small comfort.

"This is good a spot as any," Phil said aloud to himself. He dropped his duffel bag off to the side, the bag unzipped and the boy's designated weapon sticking out. Phil eyed it with some anxiety, his hand slowly reaching up to the chain he wore around his neck. Hanging from the golden chain was a modest wooden carving of an angel. He began to fiddle with piece of wood.

_Melissa…_

Phil took a long deep breath, before reaching up and touching his forehead, and then his chest, left shoulder, right shoulder. The sign of the cross. He started praying in his head, but his thoughts were too scrambled for him to concentrate. Words and phrases jumped into his mind and disappeared just as fast. Anger rose and receded as fear continued to gnaw at him like a teething child.

He took another long breath.

"Melissa," Phil said, his voice barely a whisper, "Things have gotten pretty bad down here."

Hearing her name said out loud made the boy cringe slightly, but it empowered him too. He felt strong enough to continue, so he did.

"I know you've been watching over me," Phil said as he reached up and grasped the wooden angel once again, "But I need your help again." He took a breath. He tried to close his eyes, to picture her inside his mind, but for some reason, her features eluded him. Phil sucked in air between his clenched teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, but still he couldn't see her face.

Why was it becoming harder and harder to visualize what she looked like? Phil still had pictures of Melissa, and he could still hear her voice when he stopped and listened to the wind. But at that moment, without the pictures, Phil had a hard time remembering how she looked – small things, like the contour of her nose, the shape of her eyes, the thinness of her lips. He couldn't put the pieces of her face together.

"You've never let me down before," Phil said, unable to see Melissa in his mind's eye, "Please, help me - please ask for guidance from God on my behalf."

A wave of hopelessness washed over the boy and he sucked in a painful gasp. His eyes watered and he quickly wiped them clean. The rocky ground was starting to dig into Phil's knees, and he clasped his hands together so tightly that he was losing feeling in his fingers. The rustling leaves whispered of hidden dangers.

"What should I _do_?" Phil said, wringing his hands together before running them through his short brown hair. He leaned forward until he was on all fours, driving a fist into the soft ground.

"WHAT SHOULD I DO?" Phil repeated, his voice high and hysterical.

A rustling reached Phil's ears and the boy glanced up. A few inches away from his face stood a pair of sneakers. All the weight was placed on one, while the other sneaker tapped against the ground in an impatient manner. The breath caught inside Phil's lungs as his eyes continued to drift upwards, past the legs, groin, torso, up to the face.

Riley (Boy #6) of the College Crowd stood in front of Phil, his muscular arms folded across his chest. Phil's eyes widened in fear as Riley grinned at him from above. His eyes caught sight of the moonlight reflecting off a long curved object held in Riley's right hand.

"What should you do?" Riley said, repeating the question and unfolding his arms. He brought the sickle up to the side of his head and lightly scratched his temple with the tip, while gazing up at the sky like he was pretending to think very hard. "That's a very good question," the boy said at last, lowering the hand scythe to his side, his hand gripping the handle a little tighter.

"Why don't we find out together?" Riley said.

-B-A-T-T-L-E-

Kristy (Girl #6) paused at the edge of the lake. Total darkness had terrified her, and even though the moon was full, the trees blocked out the light inside the forest. Moonlight had flooded the streets inside the small village, but after exiting the school, Kristy had decided to avoid the town completely. She thought that most of the other students would take shelter in one of the several shacks that were sprinkled through the village, and Kristy didn't want any surprise visitors.

Unless, of course, that visitor was her boyfriend, Raymond (Boy #11).

Sure, Kristy had friends out there in the playing field, but part of being a FLA meant that your friends were also your competitors. Running for school government, becoming captains of sports teams, being named the top fundraiser – they were all prizes that all the FLAs wanted. Sometimes competitions were avoidable, like when Heather (Girl #3) became the captain for girl's soccer. Heather was the only girl FLA who played soccer – she was a shoe in. But becoming class president was always a struggle, since most of the FLAs ran for that position.

Sure, at the end of the day, the FLAs could always look each other in the eye and smile, but that didn't count for anything. The reason that the FLAs formed was because they all had the same priorities - they were winners. That meant that they would do anything for victory, even place themselves before everything else.

Sometimes that made Kristy ashamed of herself - that at her very best, she was a selfish person.

From a distance, the waterfall was beautiful.

Moonlight and shadows danced together in the rapids. The roar of the water was almost soothing to Kristy, and she wondered if that would still be the case if she was closer to it. She let the duffel bag fall to her side. From there, Kristy had a beautiful view of the entire lake, which was bigger than she expected.

She knew she could swim from one end to the other, but not everyone could. And the swim would take her some time as well. Kristy could check the map and look at how large the lake really was, but that would involve going into her duffel bag.

Kristy glanced down at the sinister-looking bag, and she grimaced. She'd avoided opening the bag thus far, and she intended to keep it that way. She was worried that she'd reach inside the duffel and slice off her hand on whatever her weapon was. But beyond that, opening that bag was an acknowledgment of her situation, and Kristy wasn't ready for acceptance yet.

She was still in the denial stage.

She was sure that she would feel ten times better if the government hadn't confiscated all her belongings as well. That was due, in part, to the fact that they had separated the girl from her anxiety medicine. She hadn't liked the idea of being on medication in the first place, but her father had insisted. And now the pills were gone. Kristy could already feel the inklings of anxiety starting to well up inside her, and she wondered if she would have a panic attack some time in the future.

Kristy shook her head. That whole anxiety trouble was probably just in her head. If she didn't think about those lost pills, then they wouldn't be a problem. Just like The Program. Ignore it, and it'll just go away.

The girl sunk to the ground in a heap. She stared at the water before her, watching the ripples wash against the shore. Her eyes became unfocused, and the moonlight reflecting off the water began to take shape. She saw a dopey smile, hands buried deep inside jeans pockets. And two scars - one between the eyes. And one on the chin, where no beard could grow and conceal the marking.

"Raymond…" the girl said with a sigh. She pulled her legs in close to her body and rested her head on her knees.

_Where are you?_

-R-O-Y-A-L-E-

She paused at the edge of the cliffs, staring down at the dark ocean that crashed against the rocky face. The salty spray rose high and stung her nostrils, but she liked the sensation. She took a few deep breaths, letting the salt air settle inside her lungs. The ocean always reminded her of one thing.

_If I could be anything,_ she thought, _I'd be a pirate._

Now THERE was a thought she couldn't share with anyone.

Jillian (Girl #18) didn't have to worry about fate. To her, destiny was real. Not in any sort of mystical way, in fact, it was quite literal. Because Jillian's life was planned every second of every day until she was eighty. Sometimes Jillian wished that was a joke. But it wasn't. Fate was real, and it was a document file saved away on the home computer.

The file had been drafted up by her parents when she was close to ten. They had sat the girl down and told her that she could be anything.

ANYTHING.

But to get there she would have to work. Work hard most likely. And to help her fulfill her dreams, her parents were prepared to show her what it would take. A how-to list. That's what they made for her. It started as an off-hand comment from a sarcastic ten-year-old mouth. She'd laughed when she said it, and it took a second for Jillian to realize she was the only one.

Her parents had glanced at each other for a moment, and then they went to work. They typed together, fluidly moving between thoughts and ideas and steps like they shared a single mind. Jillian watched in silence as, page after page, the list grew and grew and suddenly they were done. Her mother had stretched her fingers like they ached, and her father had released a single sigh before they turned toward her.

"If you want to become the first female Dictator," her father had said, "this is how you do it. Follow our list, and it can be yours." Jillian had wondered if her parents were kidding, playing a joke on her. But even at ten years old, she knew it was real. The list mentioned good grades, the types of programs to get involved with, the right people to meet and become friends with. And it explained how to win the approval of the current Dictator – the sole person to name his successor. There was everything – how to become a successful person and claim the Dictator's favor to become the first all-powerful female.

It had been intimidating, overwhelming, a little _too_ ambitious. But it was real. And as Jillian followed her parents' instructions, she slowly realized that it _was_ possible. Unlikely, but still possible. They hadn't lied to her – Jillian had asked to become the most powerful person on Earth, and her parents showed her how.

Jillian sighed, inhaling more salt water vapor.

Sure, she was grateful. But sometimes she wished she didn't have that file. Because she had no excuse not to follow it. If her parents had let that remark slip by, it would have remained in her head, to be recalled in her golden years with a hearty chuckle. But now it was real – it was possible. Just like a treasure map – there was no reason _not_ to follow it. The difficult part – the path to greatness – had been drawn out for her. She _had_ to adhere to the file, and for that reason Jillian felt trapped. Sure, someday she'd be the most powerful person on the planet, but for the moment, her life was just one deadline after another, a constant hum of competition and anxiety.

She remembered when she was a lot younger, soon after the file had been created, the nervousness had gotten to her. She'd started sleepwalking, and her parents even said she would talk and be coherent in her sleep, like she was on autopilot and someone else had taken over. Jillian had managed to control her anxiety since then, and instances of her somnambulism decreased dramatically.

Jillian giggled, rolling back onto her heels and then forward onto her toes. She liked the word "somnambulist", it was just a fancy word for sleepwalker, but sometimes she pretended it meant something more, like a messiah. A chosen one.

Or a pirate.

She knew who took over when she was unconscious. It was her inner buccaneer, the subconscious part of her that wanted to throw away conformity and ethics. Pirates went wherever the wind led them and took what they needed. They were free in every sense of the word - a type of freedom that Jillian wouldn't ever be able to experience. She resented that fact.

Jillian listened to the waves crash below her, but at the same time she listened for the approach of someone creeping up behind her. The girl was at a loss. The Program was the only thing she'd ever come across that wasn't present on the list her parents made for her. It was the sole item they hadn't taken into consideration.

Well, she knew what the pirate hiding beneath her skin would do. She would let out a war cry and prepare to murder, rape, and pillage the nearest unsuspecting town. While Jillian wasn't prepared to rape anyone, and there was nothing in town to pillage, murder seemed like an obvious choice. But what about the girl she actually was? Sure, the unconscious part of her had made up its mind, but what about the part of her that was awake, the part that made her who she was? The part that wanted to rule the world.

Jillian grinned.

That was pretty easy too. At the end of the day, all that mattered was the list. Everything she did was a part of the plan, part of the big picture that got her one step closer to Dictator. Hell, emerging as the victor of The Program would get her world-wide recognition. It would allow her to skip some very difficult steps and maneuver her way into the Dictator's inner circle.

So that was that. She had decided to play. No earth-shattering revelation, no parting of the heavens. Just simple, cold logic. Deep down, Jillian suspected that it would come to this. No, not the idea that she might have to murder the other FLAs, but rather the notion of eliminating the competition. Eventually, Jillian knew she'd need to be the last one standing to become Dictator.

She just didn't know that it would be so literal.

Besides, it wasn't like she had friends. Sure, the other FLAs were smart in their own right, but they weren't ambitious. They wanted to be intelligent for intelligent's sake, or were pushed by their parents, or just liked the feeling of being superior to everyone else. But Jillian was the only one who saw her lifestyle as a means to an end – the pathway to Dictator. The others were too short-sighted.

Except for maybe Mike D (Boy #9). He was the only one who was preparing himself for later in life. Jillian knew that Mike D wanted to become president – he had mentioned it once (and only once) and then chuckled like it was futile to wish for something like that. Even though Jillian knew that the president was just a figurehead for the Dictator, it amused her to think about Mike D being the president, while she assumed the rule of Dictator. High school acquaintances ruling the planet together. Not that she would have given him any real say.

But Mike D was dead, and with him went the only person Jillian truly respected as a potential equal. Would she have to personally kill any of the other FLAs? Jillian wasn't really sure if that would be necessary, but if it came to that, she was sure she could manage. One way or another.

Jillian sighed and smirked as she lifted her head up and gazed at the stars. She wondered if Evan (Boy #24) would come looking for her, or for his actual girlfriend, Heather.

Her eyes widened when it finally occurred to her that she hadn't opened her duffel bag yet. She had no idea which weapon was contained inside. She dropped the bag to her feet and then crouched down to open it. Her heart sped up slightly, silently praying for a gun. With a quick zip and the duffel bag gaped open like a hungry mouth and Jillian quickly reached inside. What she drew out surprised her beyond belief.

"A rose," she said with a sigh. The dark red petals seemed pitch black in the night, and the girl hissed softly when she accidentally pressed her finger into a thorn. She pulled her hand back, gently sucking on the damaged finger and tasting her coppery blood.

_Would I be satisfied if it was going to be that easy?_

Jillian raised the flower up to her face, and took a long, indulgent inhale through her nostrils. The fresh aroma mixed with the salt water rushed into her lungs, and quickly moved throughout her body.

"Not at all," Jillian said with a soft exhale. "Not at all."

-B-A-T-T-L-E-

"What's the matter, buddy?" Riley said with a slight smirk, "Were you expecting someone else?"

Phil was on his feet in an instant and took a small step backwards. He wanted to cry out in pure terror, but he couldn't bring himself to do anything. In fact, it took Phil a moment to realize he wasn't breathing. As he pulled in a much needed breath, however, he did it slowly, out of fear that the slightest change would send Riley on the offensive.

The blackness seemed to envelop the two of them, the forest fading into the background. Phil could almost feel his duffel bag a few feet behind him, hidden in the darkness. He refused to turn and look at it, because Riley hadn't seemed to notice it yet.

Or the weapon just barely poking out of the top.

"Did you really think praying was going to save you?" Riley said, his voice low and harsh. But there was an amused smirk on his face – a grin that held immense amounts of contempt.

"You weak-minded sheep," Riley said, spittle erupting from his lips with each word. "Religion is just a means of coping with forces we don't yet understand. There's nothing else out there."

Phil's eyes widened for a second, before he took a breath to calm himself. Phil knew who Riley was – everyone did. There were certain people that every kid in school knew on sight – the FLAs and the College Crowd. Riley was a member of the latter, the more rebellious of the groups, although both seemed to hold unseen power over the rest of the student body. And according to some rumors, the faculty too. Despite knowing who the intruder was, Phil was sure that the reverse was not true. He and Riley had never spoken before. Ever.

_So why is he so pissed at me?_

"No," Phil replied with a soft shake of the head, "I don't believe that." He took another small step backwards, hoping that the bag was were he remembered it.

"Wake up, you fucking idiot," Riley said with venom, "There is no God. If there was, do you think He would allow something as evil as The Program to exist?" That didn't seem like proof of God's nonexistence to Phil, and he prepared to say so. But he held himself back. The last thing he wanted was to offend Riley and send him on the war path, at least not before Phil could get a little closer to his duffel bag.

Riley grinned, using the tip of the scythe to pick out pieces of dirt from beneath his fingernails. "How about some proof? Got any of that to offer?"

Phil scowled, the words cutting him deeply. What concern of Riley's was it if Phil was a believer? Why the personal vendetta? Whatever the case, Riley was taking plenty of shots at Phil, and the boy couldn't defend himself. The strikes weren't physical, but they were just as hurtful. However, before Phil could launch a counterattack, he needed his weapon. Any damage done to his faith would have to be endured.

"I don't need proof," Phil said through grit teeth, taking another subtle step backwards. "Faith isn't about facts. It's more than that."

Riley laughed, his face to the sky, before returning his gaze to Phil. His hands were placed on his hips and he was leaning slightly forward, with an expectant expression on his face. He might as well have screamed the word "PATRONIZING", like he was speaking to a mentally handicapped child.

"Did God send me to answer your prayers then?"

Phil anxiously bit his lip. His instincts told him to cry out and defend himself against this bully. But he was scared that a single wrong word would send Riley into a rage. He needed to make sure he could get to his weapon before everything else. Phil's heart rate sped up as he prepared himself. He stretched his fingers, mentally reaching out for his duffel bag.

"Well, here's your big chance to find out," Riley muttered, the scythe poised above his head, ready to strike. "Once you're dead, you'll know once and for all."

Phil tightened his hands into fists. He couldn't rush it. Another step would give him enough time to reach his weapon, or so he hoped. If he could keep Riley on his tirade against religion, he could buy himself a little more time to edge closer to his duffel bag. But it seemed like the boy had gotten all his hatred out – or soon would, with Phil on the bad end of that sickle.

Riley was preparing to kill.

"I hope you're ready."

Phil hoped so too.

His mind screamed in panic as Riley charged him. The boy spun and leapt for his duffel bag in the darkness. Phil landed on the ground, his hand closing around his weapon in the oblivion. He whispered a quick thank you to the heavens before spinning around. Riley bent over and brought his arm down at Phil's body, but stopped inches away from the boy's neck.

Phil aimed his Smith & Wesson handgun at Riley's face, his finger hovering over the trigger.

"Drop the scythe," Phil said. When Riley didn't comply, he pressed the barrel against Riley's forehead. "Drop it!"

Riley let go of his weapon, letting the blade plummet to the soft soil. He raised both of his hands above his head, backing up a few steps. Phil climbed to his feet, the gun never wavering from its target. Phil watched Riley grind his teeth, the anger of losing his scythe. He could see that Riley wanted to cut his losses and take off, but for some reason he wasn't moving.

"Gonna shoot me?" Riley said, his eyes on the gun, "Isn't that breaking a commandment? What happened to turning the other cheek?"

_Why isn't he running away?_

And suddenly Phil knew it. Riley wanted the gun - it was obvious by the way he stared at it. There was no fear in his face, only desire. Even though he had lost the sickle, Riley wanted to stay to claim the handgun. And he was willing to risk getting shot to get it. A risk-taker – all or nothing.

"You piece of shit," Phil said, the rage slowly filling his body, "Mocking my faith and then trying to use it to save your pathetic life?"

Riley opened his mouth to retort something, but then reconsidered and closed his trap. Phil's chest heaved as the adrenaline continued to pump through his body, his heart racing a mile a minute. He wanted more than anything to simply pull the trigger and let the bullets rip through the boy's arrogant face.

"You think it's easy to have faith in this age of information?" Phil said, "It's fucking hard! Science is the new religion for the masses." Phil took a step toward Riley, who merely stood his ground. Phil realized he was standing directly over the scythe that, seconds before, had nearly opened his throat. He stooped down and grabbed it in his free hand.

"Weak-minded?" Phil's voice began to rise, "With all the SHIT going on in the world – it takes a lot of strength to believe there's still someone out there that's got your best interests in mind. That loves everyone unconditionally."

"You're delusional," Riley said, finally deciding to retreat a pace or two. His eyes never left the gun. Phil hissed with fury, his hand tightening around the handle of the scythe.

"Even if there is no God," Phil continued, his finger resting on the trigger, "I'll have no regrets living life the way I do." He lowered the gun only slightly before realizing he had done so and raised it again. "Choosing to foster compassion and sympathy over hatred and violence. That everyone is inherently good. Tell me, who am I hurting by living like this?"

"Yourself," Riley said almost at once, his eyes unblinking as he stared into Phil's. Phil opened his mouth, but then closed it again. It took a minute, but no less. His eyes widened, and then immediately narrowed. He had caught Riley's meaning, and it pierced him deep in the chest. Phil's heart rate sped up again, and his breathing became more difficult.

"No," he said, his finger now applying pressure to the trigger. Riley watched the boy, waiting for the precise moment for Phil's guard to drop. He would strike then, and finish this sheep once and for all.

Phil shook his head. "I refuse to even consider that hope is self-destructive."

Riley eyed the gun.

"Hoping we'll be rewarded for our good deeds; that we're all a part of something greater; that…that-"

…_that we can once again be with those who have died before us…_

Phil closed his eyes as he screamed, "I won't accept that hope is wrong!"

Riley saw his chance and he rushed forward. Phil realized his mistake almost at once. Because beyond the sound of Riley rushing forward, there was more Phil could sense. He could _feel_ the boy charging him. The malice, the bloodlust – Phil could almost reach out and touch them.

It was quick and fluid, maybe a little too easy for the weight such an act carried. The act, of course, was a gun being fired. He pulled the trigger once and heard a scream, still with his eyes squeezed shut. Phil spun around, refusing to look at Riley. He looped the hand holding the scythe down and through the duffel bag strap. He lugged it behind him as he raced away, without looking back.

He ran until he couldn't feel his legs anymore and then they gave out on him. His breaths came in heavy gasps as he lay in the dirt, and he could only catch a glimpse of the sky through the trees. It took a minute for Phil to realize he was crying. Long after his breathing had quieted, his heart refused to slow. He could feel it pounding in his head, could feel blood sprinting through his veins.

_I know what to do._

The answer hadn't come easy, but Phil could see it now. He couldn't play, but without weapons, no one else would either. The deadliest warriors were nothing without their weapons, and without them, less people would die. He would locate all the hardcore players and strip them of their blades, their guns, and their blunt instruments. It was only a temporary solution to the situation, but an answer nonetheless. He had prayed for a direction, and he had received one.

It wasn't the answer he was looking for. But it would be selfish to ask for anything more.

_Thank you, _he prayed silently,_ Thank you for interceding on behalf, Melissa._

-R-O-Y-A-L-E-

"Fuck!" Riley said, his voice deep and filled with pain. One hand was balled into a constant fist, while the other kept reaching up toward his head. He gingerly touched his ear before the pain surged though his head and down his neck and spine. Riley cursed again from his fetal position in the darkness.

"Fucking bastard!" Riley said, cupping his bleeding ear, "Fucking delusional bastard!" He clamped his jaw shut and sat himself up. How in the hell had he been shot in the _ear?_ That asshole's eyes had stayed closed, and Riley still had managed to get himself shot. He kept telling himself he was lucky that the bullet hadn't been two inches to the side, where it would have gone right through his face and out the back of his head.

But Riley didn't feel lucky. He wondered if the bleeding was going to cause some problems for him. It would be best to wrap something around his ear, but Riley didn't have many options.

And his weapon was gone.

_Damn him! Damn him to nonexistent hell!_

Riley began to tug his shirt off, being careful as he pulled it up over his head not to touch his ear. He started to wrap it around his head, feeling some damp flesh pushed up against the side of his head. It made him sick to think about the dangling tissue that used to be his left ear.

When he was done, a sleeve drooped in front of his face. He adjusted it and released a quivering exhale. Well, his scythe was gone, but he was still alive and able to fight. He still had his map and food and water. The game had only just begun, and Riley had no intention of losing.

He balled both hands into fists until his muscles cramped.

_Next time,_ he thought,_ he won't get away!_

Current Danger Zones: 28

Pending Danger Zones: none

(48) Contestants Remaining


	4. Major Contender, Eliminated

What a big fucking waste of time this whole thing was. The Program? What a joke!

She stopped her traipsing around the southern part of the village. None of these places were houses – they were all shacks. Put together by the Three Little Pigs' retarded brother. She was shocked to see that the first place she went into had no floor – it was just more dirt. What kind of run down place was this anyways? Where was the _bathroom_?

She tucked some long, bleached hair behind her ear. This place was a dump, no where near good enough for her to stay in. But as awful as it was, it had to be better than staying out in the forest, right?

She could really use a foot rub. She considered taking off her high-heeled shoes, but there was no way in hell that her pedicure-treated feet would touch this filthy dirt. She would just suffer through the pain. Besides, her shoes matched the rest of her outfit. The short skirt, the tank top that was one size too small – perfect for attracting the perfect man.

The perfect man, of course, was wealthy.

_There aren't any rich men here_.

She was right – the only males around for miles were the soldiers back at the school (she noticed the way they eyed her, but everyone knew soldiers were dirt poor) and her male classmates. She'd never taken much interest in the boys at school, because she was more interested in finding a millionaire to take care of her. She had finally arrived at that age where she had become a full-figured woman.

And Maya (Girl #8) was going to use that for all its worth.

The hard part wasn't attracting rich men – not anymore. Aerobics classes, crash diets, tanning salons – all to keep her body in its peak position. The most difficult snag in her plan to become a professional trophy wife was finding the rich men. She knew they were out there somewhere – Maya just didn't know where.

A marriage here or there, no pre-nuptial agreement (EVER!) and she'd have plenty of money of her own. To do whatever she wanted, which was just to lay by the pool and have men wait on her hand and foot. To be treated like the goddess she knew she was.

Oh well, for a while, that plan would have to wait. The Program had come and disrupted her routine to get ready for summer break. She was missing a few tanning sessions, and she couldn't have her low-cal, low-carb, low-fat chocolate shakes. All she had was bread (fat inducing carbohydrates!) and water. This would put her a few days behind schedule, but there were worse things that could happen.

All that remained was winning The Program. She noticed that none of her friends were present in the classroom earlier that night, not that that would have been an issue. Maya's friends were all hand-picked - girls with some pretty features, but none of them even came close to Maya's perfection. They were used as a comparison – when they all used their fake IDs to get into bars, her friends were present only so men could think to themselves, _That girl's kinda cute, but look at her hot friend!_

Maybe if Maya's friends went to the bars on their own, they'd be able to land a guy, but with Maya around, they had no hope. And if a man seemed interested in one of her friends, all she had to do was walk by, giggle, and swing her hips a little. And they all came running. Even the dumbest man could recognize perfection when he saw it.

Her friends would probably be upset with her if she wasn't so good at turning their frustrations on each other. A little lie spread here, a tearful confession there – they all thought they were her best friend, and that the rest of the group were bitches. So they provided more than just a comparison – they were _entertainment._

But none of them were there. Somehow, they had avoided The Program. That was just luck on their part. Maya would have had no trouble killing them, just like everyone else in the playing field. She had no intention of dying here, and no stupid College Crowd-er or FLA or anyone else would be able to kill her.

She was above them. ALL of them.

Just like she was above this terrible village, and The Program too. It was only a matter of time before she won this game, and then everyone would bow down and worship her, like a goddess.

Maya supposed that the only person who she thought would understand her way of life was Nina (Girl #20). The two of them would run into each other at the tanning salon, and smile in recognition. Maya didn't even mind the girl, since Nina was no where near as pretty as her. But Nina was still just a whore, pressured into her role by the other College Crowd members. Or maybe just the leader. Everyone thought that Nina was the leader of the group, but Maya knew that was wrong. No leader would ever choose to sleep with the ugly, fat, middle-aged faculty members for leverage. Maya had a feeling the leader was someone else…

The girl shook her head slightly. This kind of thinking wasn't going to help her win The Program. She needed some more weapons and to rack up some kills. But before she could murder anyone, Maya would have to lure them out.

She needed prey.

Her designated weapon was safely tucked away in her shirt, strapped to her back (thanks to her bra). She was hoping for a better place to do this, but since the entire playing field was a shit hole, this part of the village was as good a place as any. She leaned up against one of the shacks, immediately cursing herself for getting the back of her shirt dirty. Maya sighed and decided that it would be nearly impossible for her to remain clean throughout this process. So she leaned up against the shanty one more time.

And she started to cry.

The tears were real, but the emotion behind them was not. Maya had learned long ago that people let you get away with anything if they felt bad for you. Pity was Maya's all-access pass. Late homework was forgotten when Maya tearfully explained how her puppy had been run over (when she had just decided to put him down instead). Pity was her greatest ally – and it would serve her well in this game.

When no one came to her initial sobs, she started weeping louder, hoping to draw someone's attention. One look at her, a gorgeous damsel in distress, and no one would be able to resist offering her some support. And then she'd strike. Hard and fast. And one by one, they'd all vanish like the useless trash they were.

She quieted down a little when she heard footsteps. They were soft and slow, almost sounding hesitant, unsure if this was the right choice.

_So, my first kill is here._

She arched her back against the side of the shack, making sure her most noticeable features were the first thing her victim would see. If it was a girl who approached, though, Maya would have to remember to play up the tears. Girls responded to emotions, boys responded to tits. That's just how the world worked.

She saw him appear off to her side, entering the clearing and making his way towards her. Her eyes widened in fear for a single second while her mind wrestled with what to do next. Should she run? No, he'd easily catch her, especially if she kept wearing those damn high-heeled shoes. She drew him in with her tears, and she could finish him off. She'd just have to play up her sex appeal a little more, keep his thoughts on her body and not on the game.

_Play the helpless damsel. He won't waste time killing someone who's not a threat._

"Whoa," he said as he got closer and Maya pretended to squirm, squatting down and revealing a little more leg, "Calm down."

"No, I saw what you can do," Maya said, letting a little panic into her voice, "You'll kill me!"

"Now, why would I want to kill such a pretty girl like you?" Hank (Boy #15) said with a soft smile.

-B-A-T-T-L-E-

"Are you sure this is the best place to go?" Alexa (Girl #22) said, her voice barely above a whisper. The two boys in her company glanced at her for a second before gazing back to each other. Alexa opened her mouth to tell them she didn't want to cause trouble, and she didn't want to be the voice of dissent. She just wanted to be _sure_ that it was the best place.

"Most of the so-called houses in this village are just shacks," David (Boy #3) said, his voice slightly louder that the girl's but still very quiet. "And many of them don't have doors. Wherever we are, it's an extremely low-income area."

"Forget low-income," Jacob (Boy #13) said, "I don't think we're even in America anymore."

"We're certainly not in Kansas anymore, Toto," David said, and wasn't too surprised when no one chuckled. "But besides that, this house has doors, windows, and even another floor, which could be a second defense against intruders."

"That's true," Alexa said, glancing around them, making sure that no one else was near them.

"I think this is the best place to hide and wait this whole thing out," Jacob said, staring up at the town hall building. There was a massive clock on the top of the building, and the moonlight reflected off its white face.

Just like Alexa's.

Jacob couldn't help but notice how extremely pale the girl was looking. He couldn't blame her, not for the horror that they were all facing. But he was a little anxious that soon the girl was just going to lose it. If she had some kind of dangerous weapon, Jacob may not have agreed to let the girl join him and David. But since her designated weapon was extra food and water, there was no real harm in it.

David had vouched for the girl. Jacob recognized her from their class, but it was David, his best friend, who convinced Jacob she could be trusted. Truthfully, Jacob had hoped that he and David would spend their time alone, reminiscing of good times past and wait for the reality of the situation to reach them. Jacob had nothing against Alexa, in fact he barely knew her at all, but he felt like she was intruding on the best friends' last chance to enjoy each other's company.

Jacob sighed quietly to himself. This was no time for complaints. Things could be worse – much worse. He and David could both be out there somewhere in the playing field, terrified and alone.

Or dead.

That was a distinct possibility as well. They were lucky they had found each other, and if the only catch was that Alexa tagged along, then Jacob wouldn't object. He just wished he trusted the girl as much as David did. It was strange - David had never mentioned Alexa to Jacob, but the way they interacted, it appeared that the two shared some form of friendship.

"Should we go inside then?" Alexa said, still scanning the surrounding area for other players.

"We need to make sure the place is vacant before walk in and drop our guard," Jacob said. He pulled his weapon out of his side pocket and gripped the hammer in his hand. "I guess I should go first?"

"I'd offer, dude," David said, "But my handcuffs aren't going to be much help if there's someone inside who wants to take our heads off."

While that may have been true, Jacob didn't feel like his hammer was going to be much more useful than the handcuffs if there was someone inside with a gun. Again, this was no time for complaints. He just needed to do it and be done with it. He moved up the steps to the large wooden door and took a deep breath. He raised one leg and shoved it forward, kicking the massive door open. Jacob leapt to the door frame, in case someone was waiting for him just inside. He peeked around the corner and then over at David and Alexa. They both watched him intently, and he slowly nodded before sliding inside the building.

He stayed close to the wall, listening for any sort of noise, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness inside the building. Jacob's breaths were short but quiet. Contours slowly began to take form in the darkness. He could make out a few more feet in front of him, still seeing nothing of importance. A few minutes ticked by and the moonlight shining through the bare windows helped a little. He wondered if David and Alexa were still in the same spot, waiting for him to emerge and give them the okay to come inside.

Jacob took a few steps away from the wall, still keeping his ears open for any sound, but still he heard nothing. His eyes had almost completely adjusted as he explored the bottom floor. There seemed to be only a few rooms (three) and none of them had doors, so the whole floor was simply wide open space. Every time Jacob turned around he expected to see someone standing there, their visage illuminated by the moonlight shining through the bare windows. But there wasn't anyone else on the bottom floor.

Jacob sighed in relief and walked back to the front door. He stifled a scream when he saw a figure standing in the doorway, but bit his tongue when he heard the person whisper his name.

"I'm right here," Jacob whispered back. David jumped back from the doorway, the sudden noise frightening him.

"Holy crap, Jacob," David said, the moonlight revealing the features in his face, "Where were you? Alexa and I have been waiting for you."

"Just being thorough," Jacob said back in a soft whisper, "I haven't checked the upper floor yet, but the bottom seems fine. You guys can come in." He stopped for a second. "Where is she?"

David glanced behind him for a second. "She's here somewhere. I'll go get her." The boy disappeared into the night, leaving Jacob in the darkness. The boy moved to the other side of the room, looking for the stairs that led up to the second floor. He turned when he heard footsteps racing up the steps toward the town hall building. A single feminine figure appeared in the doorway.

_First David alone, and now Alexa alone._

Jacob was about to walk towards her when she rushed inside and slammed the door shut behind her. His brow furrowed, and he prepared to tell Alexa that if she wanted to stay, then David stayed. After all, Jacob had no intention of spending the next three days with a complete stranger, never mind a _useless_ complete stranger.

"Oh my God!" the girl whispered, and Jacob watched her move to the wall next to the door before sliding down to the floor. Jacob froze as he heard her say it again. At first, he thought there was something wrong with his ears, that somehow the darkness was messing with his hearing.

"He's after me!" she said, speaking for a third time. Jacob's eyes widened in fear, and he found his feet glued to the floor. He wanted to breathe, but couldn't seem to remember how. His grip on the hammer tightened until his hand cramped.

_That's not Alexa._

He rushed the girl, clamping his hand over her mouth. He brought the tail of the hammer up to her neck, so that the cold metal touched her. The girl tried to scream but Jacob's hand muffled the sound. She tried to squirm away from him, so Jacob pressed the tail further into her neck. In the darkness, there was no way this girl would know that all Jacob had against her throat was a hammer.

"Who are you?" Jacob hissed through grit teeth, "Where is David?" He noticed that he didn't ask where Alexa was, but at that moment he didn't care. At first he thought she was trying to answer him, but soon he realized that the girl was crying. It unsettled him, and so he removed his hand from her mouth, and the hammer from her neck. He stood, moving back a few steps.

"Please, tell me what happened," he said. The girl looked up at him, and the moonlight revealed features in her face. Jacob was surprised that he recognized her. "You're Heather," he said.

"You know who I am," Heather (Girl #3) said in a quivering voice.

"You're a FLA," Jacob replied, "Everyone knows who you are."

Silence settled over the two of them.

"The boy who recognized Miss Smith," Heather said after a few minutes, "I saw him in a clearing while I was walking through the village."

Jacob stared down at the girl, watching her as she spoke. Her voice continued to waver, and she barely moved as she talked. Her eyes remained glued to the floor. She opened her mouth to continue, before she stopped, and closed it again. Her eyes rose off the floor, up to Jacob's face. There was a distinctive…strength behind them. And even though her voice continued to waver, she managed a single question.

"Are you going to kill me?"

Jacob took a step backwards, and he brought his hands together close to his chest. The hammer felt cold against his body.

"No," he said, feeling the word surge through his body. It was a reminder to him – he _wasn't_ playing. Just because the government told him to kill, didn't mean he had to. But that wasn't all, right? It was more than just rebelliousness, wasn't it? There was something more noble and courageous happening than just denying to play.

Wasn't there?

"Can I leave?" she said, her eyes unblinking.

"Sure," Jacob said. He watched to see if she moved, but when she didn't, he decided to add one more point. "As long as you tell me what happened."

Heather stared at him for a minute. And then returned her eyes to the floor.

"That boy, what was his name?"

It took Jacob a minute, but he had made a note of it back in the classroom. Anyone who knew a lot about The Program was a threat – one way or another. His name was Zeke (Boy #22). Jacob informed Heather of this fact.

"That's right," Heather said with a nod, "I saw him. And he saw me. And when I took a step backwards, he just started _running_ at me. I saw he had an axe…" She trailed off, and Jacob saw that she was crying again. Jacob wasn't sure how to respond – should he try to comfort her and make her uncomfortable? Ignore her and let her think he's heartless? He didn't have to worry about a decision, because it was made for him.

None of the above.

The door crashed open and Heather screamed, scrambling over to the corner of the room.

"Alexa, is that you?" a voice called from the doorway.

"David?" Jacob said, suddenly remembering that his best friend had been gone for quite some time. He had become distracted by Heather – he'd almost forgotten that he was missing two other people. And while he didn't really care about Alexa that much, David was incredibly important to Jacob. And after hearing that Zeke was running around with an axe, well, David could have been hacked up into little pieces for all Jacob knew. How long until the boy realized his best friend hadn't returned?

_What kind of shitty friend am I?_

"Jacob," David said as he stepped inside, leaving the door ajar, "Is Alexa in here with you? I heard a girl's voice."

"No," Jacob said pushing away his guilt, "Heather's here."

"The FLA?" David said, waiting for his eyes to adjust, "For real?"

"Yeah," Jacob said when Heather said nothing.

"So Alexa's not here?" David said, "Damn. I have to go find her." He headed for the door. Jacob watched him start to leave until his mind yelled at him.

_If you let him walk out that door, you'll never see him again._

Jacob rushed past David, beating him to the door. Jacob slammed it shut, turning to face his friend.

"Hey, what's the problem?" David said, reaching out to open the door.

"I can't let you go," Jacob said, swiping away David's hand. David chuckled briefly before he reached for the door again. Again, Jacob intercepted him.

"This isn't funny," David said, his smile vanishing.

"I'm not laughing," Jacob replied, "Zeke's out there with an axe."

"That's all the more reason for me to go," David said, putting his hands on Jacob's shoulders. He then tried to move the boy out of the way of the door. "I won't be there to protect Alexa."

"Stop it!" Jacob hissed back, pushing David away from him, "Alexa knows where we are. She can come back whenever she wants."

"No," David said, his voice a violent hiss. He raised a fist, preparing to force it across Jacob's face. "I have to find her." Jacob raised a fist of his own, preparing to beat his friend into submission if it meant keeping him inside the town hall building.

"Why?"

The voice made both of the boys stop. They glanced over at the corner, at the girl who had spoken. Their fists opened, the arms fell to their sides. Heather was on her feet, the duffel bag on the floor behind her.

"Why do you need to find her?" she said.

Jacob tore his eyes away from Heather to stare at David. The boy had his eyes at the floor. David brought his eyes up to Jacob's face for a second before returning to the ground. The boy watched David, trying to uncover the emotion behind his bizarre expression.

_It looks like he's embarrassed._

Jacob watched David shuffle his feet slightly and shove his hands into his pockets.

"Because," David said after a few minutes of silence, "I…think I love her."

"You think?" Jacob said, and then immediately wished he hadn't. He didn't miss the dirty look that David shot at him. Jacob bit his lip, suddenly understanding why David had been hesitant to mention his motives. The boy opened his mouth to apologize, but David's eyes were downcast, and the shadows hid his face.

_I'm such an asshole._

"How does she feel?"

David turned his back to the two other people in the room. He raised his head to the ceiling and took a long, painful breath. He placed his hands on his hips and inhaled deeply through his nose.

"I hinted it to her once," David said, "She…uh…didn't seem interested."

Jacob grimaced, but he didn't stop staring at David. Even with his back turned, Jacob could tell that David was incredibly hurt by the rejection. He could see David's jaw tighten as the boy grit his teeth.

"Protecting her in The Program isn't going to make her love you."

David spun around in surprise, and Jacob jerked his head to the side, gazing over at Heather. He saw the same look in her eyes he had noticed earlier, the hidden power that they contained. It almost made him afraid of her. She was a FLA after all – there was more to her than at first glance. Who knew what else she was capable of?

_Do not underestimate her!_

"I know it won't." David said, biting his bottom lip.

Jacob wondered why David hadn't mentioned Alexa to him before. The boy had no idea that David was even interested in any of the girls at school, never mind loving one of them. David obviously didn't feel comfortable telling Jacob this kind of thing. He was too worried about Jacob criticizing him.

_What kind of SHITTY friend am I?_

He repeated the question inside his mind. Jacob leaned up against the door, his head hung low. It wasn't like Jacob didn't _want_ to help David, it was simply that…Jacob never felt like he knew how to do it. He was no good at offering comfort to others. It wasn't that he didn't care – because very often he cared a lot – but the right words escaped him. Or his discomfort would get the better of him. Or even worse, he'd make a joke of the whole thing, and make someone feel stupid for confiding in him at all.

Jacob didn't want to do any of those things to David. So even when he noticed the boy's lip beginning to quiver and when he noticed David wiping his eyes, Jacob still didn't move. He instead, looked at everything else he could make out in the darkness. The walls were bare, and so was the floor. Moonlight offered some help, but there was nothing to occupy his attention.

His eyes eventually settled on Heather, and he was surprised to notice that she stared intently at him. Jacob's brow furrowed, wondering why she was focusing so hard on him. He watched as she slowly moved her eyes back and forth between the two boys. And when Jacob didn't move, she began to softly motion to David with her head. Jacob shook his head in confusion, leaning forward to catch her meaning. Heather held out both arms, and wrapped them around her own body and then motioned to David again.

Jacob bit his lip. Physical intimacy was never something he enjoyed. It had nothing to do with the fact that he and David were both guys. Jacob just didn't like people invading his personal bubble. He liked a healthy two feet distance away from others at all times. Hugs were out of the question.

And yet…

He did owe this to David. For the snide comment earlier, and for not being there for his best friend. Jacob nodded to Heather with conviction. He could make this tiny sacrifice for David. As long as it gave the boy some ease – Jacob wouldn't ask for anything more than that. He could overcome his discomfort for his best friend.

_For David._

He stepped forward, feeling his arms extend and enclose David's body close to his own. Jacob could feel the anxiety rise in his body, and the fact that he could smell the sweat off David's body made him doubly uncomfortable. He wondered if he had overstepped some kind of boundary, until David finally returned the hug. And Jacob breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thank you," David said after a moment and Jacob stepped back. Jacob watched as David wandered a little ways off, into the darkness of the town hall building. Jacob gazed over at Heather, and was surprised to see the girl smiling.

No, not just grinning.

Beaming. _Glowing._

He was at a loss. He couldn't understand why Heather was so happy. What did it matter to her whether David and Jacob were agreeing or not? What was her stake in this? Jacob supposed that the girl simply wanted harmony – that in something as nerve-racking as The Program, that the girl wanted to surround herself with people who got along.

_Does that mean she's going to stay?_

"I'll stay," the voice said and Jacob turned toward the speaker. David leaned against a wall, slowly sliding down to the floor. "I'll stay," he said again.

"I'd like to stay too," Heather said, and Jacob faced her once again. The smile was gone, the strength in her eyes was too. All that remained was a girl, unsure in her current situation. Jacob gazed over at David, who said nothing. David didn't even bother raising his head. Jacob opened his mouth to state something, and then realized he wasn't sure what he wanted to say.

_Allies are better than enemies._

While that may be true, could he trust her intentions? Did he believe that any of the FLAs were so good hearted that they'd fix friendships they came across? That they would save boys with broken hearts from themselves? Did anyone like that exist?

What about the other FLAs? They'd come looking for their missing member, wouldn't they? And even if they didn't, if Jacob's memory served him correctly, Heather had a boyfriend. No doubt he wouldn't stop until he found Heather. Was keeping her worth the risk?

"Please," she said, wringing her hands together. Her eyes drifted to the closed door, and Jacob could see that the last thing she wanted was to head back out there. She shifted her weight from one foot to the next, back and forth, back and forth. He took a long breath.

_If you tell her to leave, she'll never come back._

Jacob didn't know whether that was a good or a bad thing, but it was a fact he had to face. Once she left, she was gone. There would be no inviting her back. If she stayed, he could always force her to leave later. But that was assuming that her weapon was worthless.

He shook his head. There were too many variables, too many things that were going on. Jacob suddenly felt tired. He never had so many things to worry about, and it exhausted him. He didn't feel like making any big decisions at the moment. He'd put this one off until later. Until he knew more about Heather and her intentions.

"Okay," he said at last, "You can stay." He waited a moment, "For now." The girl didn't seem to take his last sentence personally, and she nodded. Jacob let his eyes wander back to his best friend, who sat huddled against the wall. He'd done all he could to help David – he wasn't sure what else to do. Jacob had no more comfort left to give. He watched Heather slide to the floor, curling into a little ball. And so Jacob did the same.

"Alexa," David said softly.

-R-O-Y-A-L-E-

"You promise you won't kill me?" Maya said, allowing a smile to cross her face. This was going to be too easy. After all, even dangerous boys are still boys.

_They all think with their cocks at some point. Why not now?_

Hank smiled in response, his eyes wandering up and down the girl's figure. She giggled, and shied away from him, but didn't dare turn her back on him. He wasn't even trying to hide his interest. What a joke this boy was! All that fighting spirit that he displayed back in the classroom, none of it was going to be any good.

"Want me to undress right now?" she said, sliding her hands into her skirt and beginning to edge the article of clothing down her legs. The boy didn't say anything, so she stopped, placing her hands on her bosom. She started feeling uneasy, but Maya regained herself.

"Or do you want me to keep the skirt on?"

Again, Hank said nothing. The moonlight shone down from above, bathing both bodies in pale light. Maya's eyes quickly scanned the surrounding area, in case Hank had detected someone she hadn't. Or some other reason the boy wasn't responding to her anymore. He just continued to stare at her, the same grin on his face.

Maya didn't feel so confident anymore.

"Do you appreciate sex?"

The question surprised her. The girl let her arms fall to her sides. She took a step backwards before realizing that she was already up against the side of one of the shacks. She pressed herself up against it, her palms feeling damp and clammy.

"I don't understand," Maya said, her voice faltering. Hank smirked before turning his back on her.

"Do sociopaths appreciate sex?" he said. Maya stiffened, her hands slowly reaching up to the back of her neck. She'd heard the term "sociopath" tossed out once or twice in her lifetime. No one had ever seen through her.

Well, that wasn't true.

_Ms. Kishimoto…_

"I can't believe you'd say something…so horrible…" Maya said, her eyes welling with tears.

"You can stop the act now," Hank said, his back still toward the girl, "It's a classic symptom for sociopaths to disarm their victims with feelings of pity." He glimpsed back at her from the corner of a single eye. "If you make someone feel bad for you, you can get them to agree to anything."

The girl wiped away the tears, her teeth grit together in anger. Who the hell did this guy think he was? Did he think that just because he knew her secret, that he was her equal? This insignificant mass of testosterone and sweat – he wasn't even worthy to lick the sludge that gathered between her toes!

She waited until Hank was facing away from her again, and once that happened, she gripped the handle of her weapon, strapped to her back with the help of her bra. No one could know what she was. This boy would just have to die, but that had been Maya's plan all along. The only difference was that she was more driven to complete the task.

"No guilt, no shame," Hank continued, "You people were made for The Program." He turned completely around, and Maya released her weapon, worried that Hank would notice she had it hidden on her.

"It's not all it's cracked up to be," Maya said, her eyes narrowing, "No one even comes close to my level – it's like playing with toddlers all day, every day." Hank focused on her, listening as closely as possible. "It gets old. And boring. And frustrating." Maya felt strange, explaining herself like this. She'd never told anyone about herself, not her parents or any of her so-called friends. It was…liberating.

"The only times I'm happy are when I'm in control," she said, her hands playing with the collar hanging from her long neck, "And it never feels as good as the last time."

"I would feel sorry for you," Hank said, "If I didn't know that's what you want."

"Don't," Maya practically spat, "As if weak emotions like compassion and sympathy could really make me satisfied." She pushed some hair behind her shoulder. "You're deluding yourself if you think your happiness matters."

Hank took a step towards her, but Maya continued.

"I'm the ONLY ONE who matters."

Hank smirked at her. "Maybe you're right." Maya growled in response. There was no "maybe" about it.

"What do you have for a weapon?" Hank said, the question throwing Maya with its irrelevance to their discussion.

"Something useless," May replied, moving with his line of questioning. She stooped and picked up the duffel bag. Hank approached her but when he grabbed for it, Maya pulled it from his reach. Hank stared at her in the eyes, and the girl stared back, the anger growing inside her body.

"This is my weapon," Hank said, holding up a hand. Around three fingers a rubber band stretched and relaxed as Hank played with it. "It's not much, but as you saw from the classroom, I'm just as dangerous with no weapon."

Maya hissed with rage, but she didn't back down.

"I can take that bag from you," Hank said, "And I will."

Maya sneered and tossed the bag a few feet away from the two of them. Hank chuckled softly but nodded and smirked at the girl again. She waited until his back was turned as he approached the bag. The moron actually thought the weapon was still uselessly hiding inside her duffel bag? He'd seen her for what she really was, sure, but she would still come out on top.

Maya reached back and pulled the hunting knife out of her bra as Hank crouched down by the duffel bag. He slowly pulled the zipper back as Maya raised the knife high in the air.

_DIE!!!!!_

He spun around with almost inhuman speed. Maya was thrown back by some form of unseen force, and the knife dropped from her hand. The blade clattered to the soil, but was quickly picked up by Hank and brought up to the girl's throat. Some throbbing in her wrist caused the girl to gaze up, and was shocked to see another blade protruding from her tanned skin. Hank reached up, placing pressure on that blade as well, pinning the girl to the side of the shack.

Maya cried out in pain, before screaming in frustration.

"You fucking liar!" Maya spewed forth, "You LIED to ME!"

Hank twisted the blade slightly, causing the girl to scream again before quieting herself.

"I didn't lie," Hank said, "The rubber band was my official designated weapon." He twisted the blade again. "This lovely knife was tucked away back in the classroom."

"Miss Smith threw that at you," Maya said, her memory clicking at last.

"She and everyone else was too distracted by the gun to notice the throwing knife had gone missing," Hank said, "Or maybe she just wanted me to have it."

"Bastard," Maya said, followed quickly with a slew of similar curse words. When she finally stopped, Hank stared at her, deep in the eyes. The moon disappeared behind a cloud, the oblivion closing in on the two figures. Maya's blood looked black in the night, and the pain continued to throb up her arm and into her chest.

"Do you have anything to confess?" Hank said. The question took her by surprise, and since her head wasn't already swooning from the blood loss, Maya wasn't sure if he had actually asked her the question. She was quiet for a few seconds.

"Yeah," Maya said with a little chuckle, despite the pain that racked her body, "Yeah, I do. Something that I've wanted to take credit for…for a while now." Hank waited patiently, listening for what would become the girl's final words.

"Spencer," Maya said, "He's innocent."

The surprise widened Hank's eyes, and he almost lost grip on both blades. Spencer (Boy #8) was innocent? And this girl was to blame?

"Why?" Hank managed to ask, the air seemingly avoiding his lungs.

Maya's eyes hardened into dark stones. Her voice dropped and the area seemed to get darker.

"Because that old cow called me fat."

The absolute ludicrousness of the whole thing – it boggled Hank's mind. There was no way, NO WAY that she could be telling the truth. Was there? Hank's training told him that she was, but he almost didn't believe it. How could something like this pass over his head, why didn't he ever see it?

_Because it only makes sense to her. Only to the sociopath._

"You are truly evil," Hank said, his eyes wanting to avoid hers, "The world will be better off with you dead."

The laugh that erupted from Maya's lips almost scared Hank. He watched her raise his head to the sky, the laughter ringing in his ears. It originated deep inside her gut, like her rotten core was making her chuckle at him. She returned her gaze back to Hank's face.

"You can't kill me," Maya said. Her eyes looked like black holes, and her teeth were an unnatural white. If Hank ever pictured what a demon would look like, it would be her. Even with one knife through her wrist and the other at her throat, she still claimed to be in control.

"If you kill me," she said, "You'll disappear too. You idiot – I'm the ONLY ONE who matters. Without me, this world doesn't exist anymore."

Hank's hands tightened on their respective blades.

"Kill me, and you die too."

A quick flick of the wrist, and it was over. The hunting knife easily sliced through Maya's neck and blood erupted from the gash. Her eyes continued to stare at him, even as her body collapsed. Hank stepped back, staring down at her as she convulsed at his feet.

_You fool! I told you, I told you this world was made for me. _

Her vision slowly faded, and with it, the reality she had known.

_Now it and you are fading into nothingness. You've ended your own existence by killing me. You fucking retard._

Hank stared down at her, waiting to make sure she was really dead. Goosebumps rose over his arms and he realized his hair was standing up. For some reason, this kill had been very unlike his previous assassinations. None of his other victims had been nearly as terrifying as Maya. Then again, she was the first sociopath he had gone up against (as far as he knew). They were certainly a different breed altogether.

He gazed at the corpse for a few more minutes.

"Looks like you were wrong," Hank said at last, "I'm still here."

Current Danger Zones: 28

Pending Danger Zones: none

(47) Contestants Remaining


	5. Alias

Noelle (Girl #12) scurried through the forest like a mouse. With her short, dull brown hair and large dark eyes and buck teeth, she resembled a rodent sometimes too. She stopped for a moment, hearing the sound of waves, and her face twitched as she jerked her head left and right. She picked up the smell of salt water and her pointed noise wrinkled.

The girl stopped and put down her designated weapon before opening her duffel bag. She shuffled around inside it, moving aside the bottles of water and her compass before closing her hand over the piece of paper. She pulled it out and opened it up, staring down at the map. It was strange – she was sure that her initial direction was west towards the mountains. But somehow, she'd ended up on the east side of the playing field. The sounds and smells told her that she was by the ocean – by the cliffs to the far east.

"Stupid!" the petite girl hissed to herself, "Stupid!" She banged the map against her forehead, although it obviously did little damage. How could she possibly go east when she wanted to go west? What kind of idiot was she?

Noelle threw the map to the ground and balled her tiny hands into fists. She squinted her eyes in frustration.

"Why am I so _stupid_?"

Noelle knew she'd never be pretty. Mice may be cute sometimes, but never gorgeous. She just didn't have the right genetics. Noelle used to feel bitter about that, but she grew to accept it. It would be idiotic of her to constantly feel depressed about her physical appearance. But Noelle always felt that intelligence was different. If you studied hard enough, you could get smarter – the only thing holding you back was yourself. And if you cultured yourself correctly, you could be as intelligent as you wanted.

In theory.

But Noelle never felt smart. Her grades were decent, sure, but they weren't spectacular. She always made the honor roll, but just barely. And maybe Noelle wouldn't have felt so inadequate, if the FLAs weren't there for her to compare herself to. They were gods to Noelle. Well, maybe not gods, but pretty close. Like superheroes.

Super smart, super athletic – everything they tried, they were good at. They ran the school, and they did it through politics – the right way. Not like those conniving College Crowd members. Noelle wanted to be a FLA, wanted it more than anything, but she knew she could never be one fully. They were good at everything, and Noelle didn't delude herself into thinking she could be too.

But being smart was something she should be able to achieve.

She tried studying on her own for a long time, but when she got no significant results, she ventured onto Mount Olympus to ask the gods themselves for help. She wondered if they had secrets or tips for success, and while only some of the FLAs acknowledged her at all, it was a start. A start to study groups, and a start to being accepted as a FLA in her own right.

The sound of the waves grew louder as the girl continued onward. She reached up and pushed some short hair behind her ear as she poked an eye out of the forest. There was a small amount of ground between the end of the forest and the edge of the cliffs, although as Noelle glanced to the horizon, she could see that in some areas, the forest stretched right up to the brink. But there were also some areas where the forest receded far back, like a middle aged man's hairline. In the distance, Noelle could see the top of a lighthouse illuminated by the full moon.

A soft sensation brushed over Noelle's hand in the darkness, and she squeaked in fright, plunging out of the cover of the trees. The tiny mouse that had scurried over her hand continued up the tree until it rested on a low branch, staring down at the girl with empty, black eyes.

The girl put a hand over her chest, trying to stop her heart from beating so quickly. She realized that she wasn't in any mortal danger, and a tear streaked down her face. Noelle wasn't sure if the tear was from embarrassment or relief. She supposed it didn't matter which. The problem arose when Noelle realized she couldn't stop crying.

The FLAs weren't her friends. Noelle studied so hard, she did almost nothing else. But for some reason it never seemed to pay off. No one else seemed to understand – no one except the FLAs. That's why she tried so hard to befriend them, to study with them, to be like them. But Noelle felt that they saw her for who she was – an intellectual wannabe. And that's why they never accepted her.

It wasn't fair! Noelle wasn't asking for a miracle – she didn't want to be perfect. But at the end of the day when she looked in the mirror and she saw her dull hair and enlarged dark eyes and her pointed nose and big teeth, when she saw the mouse she was becoming, she wanted to be able to say, _At least I've got…_

Something!

ANYTHING!

But that's not a sentence Noelle could ever finish. She was a failure. A complete and utter failure. She gazed up at the brown baby mouse that stared back.

"I'm as insignificant as you are," she said.

_But I don't have to be._

Noelle wiped away the tears still present on her face. The mouse remained motionless, its hollow black eyes absorbing all the light in the area.

_My eyes are the same._

Noelle didn't need to be a failure. Not anymore. After all, who would expect a tiny little mouse of being a predator? She didn't owe anyone in the playing field anything – especially not those awful FLAs. She would knock them off their god-like pedestals. And show them what it felt like to nibble on the crumbs left over from everyone else.

The mouse was about rise to the top of the food chain.

-B-A-T-T-L-E-

The boy slowly moved through the forest. The duffel bag hung loosely from his shoulder, and when it appeared that it was going slip off, the boy readjusted the strap. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and ran a dry tongue over his lips. He wanted to take a sip of water, but the boy didn't want to waste his provisions so early. He'd need to make his food and water last as long as possible.

He had no intention of dying any time soon. Did that mean he was going to play? Not a chance. Well, at least he didn't think he'd have to. Sure, he wanted to live, but could he really bring himself to kill someone else? He would be an idiot if he didn't admit that it was _possible_, but unlikely.

The darkness swelled around him, ebbed and flowed like a tide. However, the boy was one of the few who felt absolutely no fear in the oblivion surrounding him in the forest. And the reason for that was clear and simple.

He could _see_.

His designated weapon was the AN/PVS-14 and accompanying helmet. Put simply, it was a night vision device and a helmet for the scope to attach to. The device was monocular, allowing the boy to close one eye and see far away into the blackness, or close the other and view the nearby surroundings with an eye adjusted to the darkness. The best part, he felt, was that both the night vision scope and helmet combined was weighed only about a pound, so he felt like he was wearing barely anything.

The boy had spare batteries in his bag, but the device was supposed to last around twelve hours, and he wouldn't need it in the day time, so he supposed it wouldn't raise any problems. The magnifier lens allowed him to zoom in manually, but even without it, the scope allowed him to see for a half a mile in the sun, and a quarter of a mile at night.

The boy glanced upwards, and took a deep breath, realizing that he had arrived where he had wanted. He'd seen it from the village not too long after emerging from the classroom. With his weapon already on his head, he'd easily seen this tree, the one that towered over every other plant in the entire forest.

With a quick glance around, he determined that no one else was in the area. He wasn't placing all of his trust in the visor – he knew he needed to use his ears as well, but since he had not seen or heard anybody, the boy felt safe, and began what he'd set out to do.

He wrapped his arms around the tree, and lifted a single foot up against the bark. He placed some weight on the foot and it immediately slid back to the dirt, his knee getting scraped along the way. The boy dug his fingers into the trunk, placing his sneaker against the bark once again. He used it for leverage and lifted off, grabbing a low branch. He hung there for a few seconds before swinging his legs up. He strained his body to pull himself upwards, being careful not to damage the night vision scope.

It took him a few minutes but finally he sat atop the branch. He stopped for a few minutes to catch his breath, letting his legs dangle over the ground a few feet away. He felt incredibly out of shape at that moment, and wiped some sweat from his forehead. He gazed upwards before slowly climbing to his feet. He swayed to one side, but he grabbed hold of a limb and kept himself steady.

And he began his climb. Slowly, carefully. Up and up. Every time he thought he'd climbed high enough, he simply climbed another branch. And before he knew it, he was close to the top. He could see above the forest, over the town. He could observe the mountains to the west, the cliffs to the east.

He could see_ everything_.

And with the night scope with the magnifier lens, he could see more from that spot than anywhere else on the island. No one could escape his gaze, no one could hide from his sight.

The boy sighed, mostly from relief, but also from exhaustion. No one would be able to sneak up on him unless they could somehow climb the tree in silence. But even then, he'd see them coming from a while away. He was completely removed from The Program up there. No one could reach him, and as long as the area didn't become a danger zone, he had no reason to move.

The Program had given him a number. And even before that, his parents had given him a name. But out in the playing field, they were both as unnecessary as each other. He didn't need either type of label. Out there, up in the tree, he had become someone else. Separated from his previous life, isolated from The Program. He was an entity all to himself.

_I am the Night Watcher._

-R-O-Y-A-L-E-

Sabrina (Girl #17) decided it was time to analyze the pros and cons.

Con: She was a part of The Program. Now _there_ was a major issue. And one that she couldn't avoid or escape from. There was nothing she could do about it. So it was time to move on.

Pro: She had her best friends with her. It was a small but significant comfort. Did she know that they'd become her most trusted confidantes when she joined girl's hockey? Not at all, but the basis for good teamwork was trust, and it was only natural to build a friendship off that reliability.

She followed behind the two of them. Her captain, Tabitha (Girl #16) was holding up her machete like it was a torch and she was preparing to light the Olympics flame. The other hockey player was Paige (Girl #23), a tall, muscular girl and in her hands she held an Uzi semiautomatic Carbine, which Sabrina correctly guessed was probably one of the best weapons in the game.

Sabrina was a little jealous that her teammates were given such great weapons, while she had be designated an ordinary number 2 pencil. She was going to toss it out, but Tabitha had advised against it – she had said that no one knew what kind of items would become important later in the game. And while Sabrina couldn't see what kind of importance a pencil could be, she knew that Tabitha had become captain for a reason, and that was because she usually knew what was best for the team.

That's what they were. Sure, none of the girls were decked out in their gear, and they weren't on the ice, but they were a team, through and through. Tabitha, the leader. Paige, the muscle. Sabrina, the speed. Together, they were unbeatable.

Con: We've also got _her_.

Sabrina wasn't surprised when, after stumbling out of the school building, she heard Tabitha's voice calling her over to the shadows. She knew her captain wouldn't abandon her. What had surprised her, however, was that Tabitha wasn't alone. Nervously chewing at the stubs that were once fingernails poking out of the end of her cast was Felicia (Girl #11).

Sure, there had been a time when Sabrina could have called Felicia a teammate and friend, but not anymore. There had also been a time when Felicia had been the star of the girl's hockey team, and could have easily led them all to the national championships. But before the season of their senior year had even started, the girl disappeared for several months, and when she returned, her arm was in the cast and she'd gained at least sixty pounds.

Sabrina remembered being shocked at the girl who had once moved with such grace and confidence had suddenly become fidgety and distant. And with a broken bone, not to mention all the weight she had put on, Felicia was in no condition to rejoin the girl's hockey team. But, for some reason, the coaches kept her on, and just let her sit on the bench while everyone else practiced and worked hard. But every time Sabrina gazed over at Felicia as she sat there, anxiously nibbling at her fingernails inside the cast, all she could think of was the trophies that could have been awarded, the games that could have been won, the season that could have been.

_She doesn't deserve to be on our team._

Sabrina glanced behind her at Felicia, as the girl chewed on some skin at the tip of her fingers.

_Not anymore._

Pro: They had some kickass weapons. Tabitha's machete had been awesome, but with Paige's Uzi also on their side, the girl's hockey team was a force to be reckoned with. Sabrina's pencil was pretty worthless, and she felt bad that she couldn't contribute to the group's safety.

Once again, the wiry girl glanced behind her to Felicia. The overweight girl seemed like she was having a little trouble keeping up with the other three, but Sabrina had no intention of slowing down. If the fat girl couldn't keep up, then she should be left behind. Sabrina didn't think it was fair that Felicia would be given a better weapon than she would. The tire iron wasn't significantly better, but it was still a lot more useful than Sabrina's pencil. The girl kept wondering how she could manage to convince Felicia to trade weapons.

So far, she hadn't come up with anything.

Tabitha suddenly stopped, holding up a hand – calling for the others to stop. Paige halted immediately, as did Sabrina. However, Felicia continued walking and plowed straight into Sabrina, who lurched forward with a stifled curse word. She gazed back at the overweight girl and shot her an angry glare.

"Do you hear something?" Paige asked in her husky voice. Sabrina began to scan the darkness around them, searching for any movement. She tried to listen too, but all she could hear was the labored breath of Felicia.

"I guess it's nothing," Tabitha replied. The girls prepared to continue their trek, when a nasal voice broke through the forest.

"Where are we going?" Felicia said, bringing her hand back up to her mouth, "Are we almost there? I'm tired."

Sabrina turned and shot another dirty glare at the girl, but didn't say anything. Although, she did grit her teeth in frustration.

"We're looking for a place to take shelter, for now," Tabitha said, "We need a home base. Walking around inside this forest at night is dangerous."

"Got it, captain," Sabrina said with a nod.

"But," Felicia began, and Sabrina sighed deeply. That should have been the end of the conversation. Tabitha was the leader – they would follow her orders. What more did any of them need to know? Besides, what Tabitha said made sense. Their weapons were impressive, but if someone ambushed them out of the darkness, then they didn't matter.

"Wouldn't it make more sense to find other people to join us now?" Felicia said, "Before they all die?"

_JOIN US?_

It took all of Sabrina's strength not to scream with fury. What was this lunatic thinking? The girl's hockey team didn't need any other members. If anything, they needed to start getting rid of the competition. Only one person would walk away from The Program, and Sabrina wouldn't be satisfied if that one person wasn't her, Tabitha, or Paige. She had no personal grudges against anyone else – she simply knew…no, felt – she felt who she wanted to win.

If Sabrina had any say in the matter, the winner of The Program was right there in her presence.

_As long as that person isn't Felicia._

"Right now," Tabitha said, "We don't know if we want anyone else to join us."

"I agree," Sabrina said, speaking up, "We have the weapons – we should be eliminating the other contestants. And we should do that before other people meet up with each other."

"We shouldn't rush into playing just yet either." Tabitha said, looking slightly uncomfortable. Sabrina glanced at Paige, and saw this same discomfort in her face. She bit her lip. Sabrina had been sure that her teammates would be on the same page as her, that they would want one of them to survive. Maybe they weren't ready to accept the reality of the situation. That was fine, Sabrina wouldn't push it. She didn't want the others to distrust her.

"Once someone is dead, we can't bring them back," Tabitha said, "We can't jump headfirst into anything. That's why we should get some shelter first. Think things through."

"I want to look for him," Paige said, her voice low. Felicia looked slightly confused, but both Tabitha and Sabrina understood immediately. Paige was obviously talking about her boyfriend, Neil (Boy #4). Sabrina knew that this was coming. In fact, she would have been surprised if Paige didn't bring up her boyfriend at all. And while Sabrina didn't mind the boy, she didn't exactly feel comfortable around him either. He was small – hell, he was petite even if he had been born a girl. No visible muscle, and hair that seemed a little long. In fact, Sabrina had been shocked to discover Neil was a boy. In her defense, though, Neil did wear a lot of makeup. Eye liner, mascara, and the numerous piercings all led Sabrina to believe he'd been a girl. Although once she heard him speak, she didn't doubt his sex anymore – the boy's voice was BOOMING. Probably to compensate for his small frame.

But Sabrina probably wouldn't care nearly as much if the boy would simply smile once in a while. There was always something wrong, always someone giving him grief about his appearance. The kid was a drama queen. And the last person Sabrina wanted around her (besides Felicia) was someone who was going to constantly bitch and moan about The Program.

However, Sabrina respected Paige enough to not say anything. It wasn't her place to tell Paige who to date, and she also was in no position to deny Paige the comfort of seeing her boyfriend.

"I understand, Paige," Tabitha said. She opened her mouth to continue and then bit her lip. Sabrina glanced over at Felicia who seemed to anxiously eye the darkness around them. The overweight girl clearly had no idea what was happening within the group.

_Fat idiot…_

"We'll look for him on the way," Tabitha said, "And once we set up the base, we'll send out search parties."

That sounded fair to Sabrina, but Paige still looked a little skeptical.

"I promise," Tabitha said, stepping toward Paige and putting a hand on her arm, "Okay?"

Paige shrugged off Tabitha's hand with a slight expression of discomfort on her face, but she nodded, and then turned away. Sabrina didn't expect Paige to be happy about Tabitha's decision, but she did expect her to follow the captain's orders.

"Let's keep going," Tabitha said. She began to walk away and Sabrina immediately followed her. It took Paige a few moments longer but she, too, fell into line. Sabrina glanced back just in time to see Felicia notice she was standing alone, and the tubby girl hustled to catch up.

-B-A-T-T-L-E-

"Noelle, is that you?" the voice drifted out of the darkness. Noelle, upon hearing her name, immediately gasped in fright. Her hands flew up to her mouth and she leapt out of the forest. Her fingers gently touched her chin and her legs felt like they were going to give out. She didn't know where the voice had come from. Noelle's eyes slowly traced up to the mouse perched on the low branch; it remained still as a statue, unmoving. The water crashed on the rocks below her. She watched, and she waited, her face twitching this way and that as the leaves rustled. Slowly the shadows parted, and the girl emerged into the moonlight.

"Oh my God," she said and rushed forward, gripping Noelle in a tight hug. She was confused at first, wondering where all this emotion had come from. But when Noelle suddenly became aware of the tears falling from her eyes, she realized she didn't care. She returned the hug, feeling the warmth radiating from the girl, like it was warming her soul.

And in a single moment, Noelle's thoughts of victory, her thoughts of destroying the FLAs, absolutely vanished.

"I'm so happy I found you," she said, pulling away from Noelle and wiping a tear from her eye. Noelle did the same, trying to calm herself down. She didn't have to be alone anymore, and that comfort was the best thing Noelle had felt in the last hours. She glanced down at the girl's hand and was surprised to see something there.

"A flower?" Noelle said.

"Oh," the girl said, "It's a rose."

Noelle stared at it and then up to the girl, a confused look on her face.

"I found it on the way," she said, "I still don't really know why I picked it up. There's just something so…perfect about a rose."

Noelle tilted her head to the side in slight confusion, and she had the smallest inkling that the girl was lying, although she wasn't sure why that was. Noelle simply felt that the girl just wasn't acting like her normal self.

"Romance and love in the petals," she said, spinning the rose in her hands, "Pain in the thorns. Nature's oxymoron."

"I-I don't understand," Noelle said, feeling stupid all over again.

"Two opposites existing together," the girl said, holding up the rose and handing it to Noelle, "Pain and pleasure, love and hate, good and evil."

Noelle stared down at the flower.

"Duality. Two things in one," she said, "Isn't that cool?"

"Yeah," Noelle said, and then quietly to herself, "I guess so."

The water crashed on the cliffs below the two girls. The spray rushed upwards and sprinkled over Noelle. The added moisture caused a chill to race through her body, and Noelle shook as goosebumps rose on her bare arms.

"Is that your weapon?" the girl said, pointing at the metal bat Noelle carried. She held out an open palm and, on instinct, Noelle handed over the bat. As soon as the metal left her hand, Noelle realized what she had done. Her hand hung in the space between the two girls, waiting.

Anticipating.

Wondering why she had just given away her weapon.

"It's heavy," the girl said, the metal bat hanging loosely from her hands. "Do you get tired of carrying it?"

"No," Noelle said almost at once, her empty hand still hovering in space, waiting for her weapon back.

"Did you hear something?" the girl said, her voice lowering to a whisper in an instant. Noelle ducked down, since she wasn't sure what else to do. She was about to ask for the bat back, but her voice caught in her throat. What would happen if Noelle did ask? Would the girl simply return the weapon, or would she get insulted? Would Noelle chase away her new ally by implying that she was trying to steal the bat? Or worse, what if she kept the weapon and left? Would Noelle be able to force her to return the metal object? Did she have that in her?

"I guess it was nothing," the girl said, her voice full of relief. Noelle released a contented sigh as well, happy that any potential danger had passed. She stood up, taking another breath. Her eyes drifted back up to the mouse, sitting complacently on the low branch.

_My eyes are the same._

It slowly returned to her. She didn't have to be the meek prey. She could take back the bat, and she could use it, if she needed to. Noelle was a force to be reckoned with, and she would make sure everyone knew it! Starting with taking back the weapon that was rightfully hers.

"Would you call us friends, Noelle?"

Time froze, but only for a moment. The wind died, and the seas quieted. Noelle stood there, her heart stopped in mid-beat, her lungs waiting for air. Her blood stood still inside her veins, and her brain needed to reboot. And suddenly, everything switched back on. Had she really just been asked that? Friends?

"I…I guess so," Noelle started, and then with more emphasis, "Yes. I do." Was it true? Not really. But Noelle desperately wanted her weapon back, and she would admit to anything if it allowed her to once again feel the cool metal in her hands. In a way, the question saddened Noelle, because once she thought about it, she couldn't identify a single person she would call a friend.

She shook her head, pushing away a lingering sense of loneliness that Noelle had been trying to ignore for years. There were more important matters at hand.

"What is my name?" the girl said, her body turned slightly to the side. Her eyes rested on Noelle's face, before slowly falling to the ground between them. "If we're friends, then you should know my name."

Was this some kind of joke? Noelle felt like she was at a loss. Something as simple as a name – was this a trap? Or maybe this girl wasn't as mentally stable as Noelle had previously thought.

Noelle spoke a name. The name she had always called the girl. The name that everyone else called her, the one she was known by. And when she had said it, again, everything quieted. Noelle's eyes traced back up to the mouse sitting on the low branch, the source of her courage and strength in this horrifying time.

Just in time to see it be devoured by a snake.

"Wrong," the girl said simply. A quick twist, and the girl rotated her hips, swinging her arms as she did. There was a soft thump with the slightest twang of vibrating metal as the bat connected with Noelle's torso. The strike caused her to stagger backwards, but only a few steps. The girl let out a sharp squeak of pain and surprise as she recoiled from the blow.

The girl watched as Noelle, her big black eyes opened wide, opened her mouth to scream. However, the roar of the ocean picked up, and the soft cry of the mousy girl was swallowed up as she disappeared over the edge of the cliffs.

"My name," she said to the open air, "is Lucy (Girl #?)."

The girl who called herself Lucy stepped to the edge of the cliff, the metal bat no longer heavy in her hands. Far below her, she could see the battered body of Noelle as it once again crashed up against the rocks. The corpse roiled in the waves, like a rag doll in a washing machine.

Lucy took a long, deep inhale of the rose. The fragrance tickled the inside of her nostrils and she released her breath. An expression of contentment spread over her face, and it persisted, even after a thorn punctured her pointer finger.

Duality.

Two in one.

She tossed the rose over the edge of the cliff and watched it drift downward. It struck the waves and disappeared beneath the surface.

The girl sighed softly. She swung the bat upwards so that it rested on her shoulder. Lucy could almost feel the girl sleeping inside her, the one who wasn't even aware of her presence. The "petal" to her "thorn".

She and the other.

TWO in ONE.

Lucy had been kept quiet far too long. Trapped deep inside, hidden away. But she was finally free, and not a minute too soon. If either one of them stood a chance at surviving The Program, it was undoubtedly Lucy. She would have to work for the both of them, but that wasn't anything new. In fact, it was one of the reasons Lucy had been created in the first place.

She shook her head. It wasn't time to dwell on the past. It was a time for _action_. Self-preservation had kicked in, and its name was Lucy.

_**You'll thank me for this someday,**_ Lucy whispered to the girl inside her.

She gazed one last time over the edge of the cliff, catching one last look at the floating corpse before it vanished into the churning ebbs.

"Sorry, Noelle," Lucy said, "Nothing personal. You're just the one I found first."

She turned away from the sea, towards the darkness of the forest. Her eyes caught a glimpse of a very complacent, very full snake, lazily digesting its recent meal on a low hanging branch.

_**But you won't be the last…**_

A strong gust of wind blew from the sea, carrying the smell of salt water (and the tiniest hint of blood) through the trees, causing them to sway and creak. The leaves rustled angrily, but slowly settled down as the breeze disappeared.

The cliff stood empty in the quiet following the sea breeze. A camouflaged snake hissed softly to itself before quietly slithering off into the darkness, in search of its next meal.

Current Danger Zones: 28

Pending Danger Zones: none

(46) Contestants Remaining


	6. The Gathering

The quiet was starting to get to Jacob (Boy #13), although, that wasn't the whole story. It wasn't just the silence that terrified him – it was every scrape against the floor, every hushed whisper that seemed to echo from the corners, every soft footstep that managed to reach his ears. Jacob didn't know where all the noises were coming from, and he was worried that he was simply making some of them up, that he was already beginning to lose his mind.

The boy glanced away to a different wall. David (Boy #3) sat there, legs sprawled out before him like a rag doll. He had been lost in thought for close to an hour, his mind probably still focused on Alexa (Girl #22). Jacob hadn't expected David to simply forget about her and to remove all feelings he had for her in an instant. David just wasn't that kind of person – if he had been, he wouldn't have been Jacob's best friend. And while Jacob felt that he had done all he could to ease David's pain for the time being, he couldn't help feeling he should be doing more.

Jacob shook his head softly to himself. There wasn't anything he could do to help David, and he needed to accept that. True, it was too bad that Jacob's friend was hurting, but there was a bigger problem weighing on everyone, a problem named The Program. It would take a while, but David would get his priorities in order. And for the time being, Jacob would leave David to his own faculties, let the boy think things through on his own.

Besides, there was another topic to occupy Jacob's thoughts. There was, after all, a third person taking up residence along with both Jacob and David. She was being as quiet as David was, lost deep inside her mind. From what little moonlight flowed through the bare windows, Jacob could see that her eyes were glazed over, almost vacant. Every once in a while, Heather (Girl #3) would shift around or move slightly, and some life would return to her eyes, some energy flowing into her face. But slowly, inevitably, she would return to her zombie-like trance.

"What now?" the voice almost made Jacob leap out of his skin, but he resisted the urge, realizing it was Heather who had spoke, although her face seemed as distant as ever. "What do we do now?"

Jacob shrugged in response, and then thinking that Heather may not have seen his gesture in the dark said, "I don't know."

More silence. Jacob could feel that the girl had more questions, and wondered if she was ever going to voice them.

"Why did you come here?" Heather said, stretching out her legs in front of her as if she were trying to keep them from cramping up. "This building, I mean. Why here?"

Jacob thought a moment, and then said, "Well, it was close by. The heavy doors felt safer than the mud shacks we passed on our way here. Plus there's a lot of room, a second floor," Jacob paused for a minute. Something was tickling the back of his mind, something he felt he was supposed to remember. He scratched his head, trying to think, when Heather interrupted him.

"And you came with him?" Even though Jacob couldn't see her, he knew Heather had motioned toward David.

"Yeah," Jacob said, "I figured the two of us would…I don't know, just talk about the good times. Memories and stuff, you know, to get us ready for…"

He paused for a second. He knew, then, that he hadn't expected either himself or David to emerge as the winner of The Program. He had felt, deep down, that both would die there in that playing field. And Jacob knew that before that happened, he had wanted to spend the rest of his remaining time with his best friend, ignoring the impending doom and focusing on the highlights of their lives. That was how he wanted to spend his last few days – not worrying about dying or fear, but rather thinking of life.

Their most treasured memories of a life that they would not have much longer.

"To get us ready," Jacob said, "for when reality came knocking on that door."

Two dull thuds echoed through the silence, and Jacob felt himself tense, his eyes locked on the door. Heather gasped almost inaudibly and tried to curl herself into a tight ball, bringing her legs in close. Jacob quietly stood, his hand tightening on the hammer. He faced the massive doors, the breath caught in his chest.

_Already they've come for us?_ Jacob thought, _I thought we'd have more time!_

The two knocks were repeated, and this time Jacob realized that they hadn't been coming from the door after all. He glanced to the side, his eyes meeting David's. The boy stared up at Jacob as he, with a sly grin, lowered his hand to the floor and knocked twice on the wood.

"You asshole!" Jacob said, his voice a quiet hiss.

"Sorry, man," David said, "I couldn't help it. You left yourself wide open for that one."

The quiet was suddenly broken by a few quiet breaths. The two boys looked over at Heather, and at first, Jacob thought she was crying again. But a few seconds passed, and he realized that the girl was actually _laughing_. She was doing her best to muffle the sounds, but the girl's chest heaved and tears formed in her eyes as the guffaws refused to subside. David joined in, chuckling quietly to himself.

Jacob was feeling tense, and still wasn't too happy about David's little prank. But he was the slightest bit relieved that the boy was finally returning to normal. David's sense of humor always was a little off, but he hadn't meant any harm by it. And it had significantly reduced the stress of the room.

David raised his head and met Jacob's stare once again. It was as if the words passed between them in a telepathic form. Maybe the conversation actually took place, although neither boy could say for sure. Jacob didn't need to say anything – the message from David came in loud and clear.

_I know what you were saying,_ David's eyes spoke, a_nd I feel the same way. I would have no regrets dying with you at my side._

Jacob allowed himself a smirk, and quietly strolled over to David. He raised a fist, like he meant to sock the boy in the face, and David raised both hands as protection, grinning all the while. Heather, in the meanwhile, had finally calmed herself down and was wiping the tears from her eyes.

"That was so funny," she managed in a whisper, and both boys looked at her. A few more quick breaths and she finally rose to her feet. Her face, although still red from the laughter she had stifled, had taken a more serious expression.

"I have a proposition for you two," she said, and both Jacob and David, glanced at each other, their grins slowly disappearing. A minute passed in silence as David climbed to his feet like the other two.

"Well," David said, "What is it?"

-B-A-T-T-L-E-

Zeke (Boy #22) slung the axe over his shoulder. A breeze kicked up some dirt, and all that was needed was a tumbleweed to drift by for the cliché empty-western-town scene to be complete. The wind carried with it the empty silence of the surrounding area. The boy felt like he had searched the village three times over already, or maybe he was simply lost in the rows of shanties and just going in circles.

Zeke had not had good luck hunting thus far. He knew, from his Battle Royale fandom, that most contestants hid inside buildings, especially in the early hours. That meant that there should be plenty of potential victims cooped up in the dozens of shacks inside the town. But as of yet, he had seen only two other contestants. One was already dead with a slit throat (although the expression on her face still sent a shiver down his spine when he thought of it) and another had bolted when he had raced at her with the axe raised.

In retrospect, it hadn't been so smart to charge that female FLA – if she had had a gun, she could have shot him right there, and that would have been it. Zeke would have eliminated, perhaps the first of the season. How _embarrassing_ that would have been! His two parents, both avid BR fans like himself, would have hid their faces in shame. Their oldest son, a BR expert, killed first.

He wouldn't let them down. He'd watched enough seasons to know how to win. A part of him wondered if his parents had encouraged his fandom simply because it was the same as their own, or rather if they had prepared him for The Program. So if he was ever chosen to participate (which he had been, obviously), then he would know how to come out alive in the end. It wasn't just a pastime that the whole family enjoyed together – it was preparation in case the unmentionable happened.

Well, Zeke was prepared, all right. He knew the weapon list by heart (although that tended to vary slightly from season to season) and he knew several successful strategies. He could recall the last ten seasons simply by memory –the contestant names and numbers, their designated weapons, and even trivia about them. All this info would be an invaluable source of power, an advantage he had over the other contestants.

But he, like most BR fans, was most interested in the information surrounding The Girl Number 25 Paradox.

Seasons 23 and 24 were made famous by many instances, as each season is, inevitably, only remembered by a quick few facts to the masses (although BR fans like Zeke knew much more than the general public). However, in particular, these two seasons were inspected much more closely upon their completion. This was due to what experts called The Girl Number 25 Paradox.

Never in BR history, in any country on the planet, had the same number and sex won The Program twice in a row. Sure, the same number had won in different seasons (with only 50 contestants, there had to be some overlap eventually). And there had even been some cases of the same number and sex winning in the same year in different countries (Australia's and Russia's Boys #2, for example, won in the same year). But never had there been a sequential win anywhere in the world.

Until that exact phenomenon occurred in seasons 23 and 24.

Girl #25 emerged the victor in both seasons. It is a common rule that the winner's number receives a much higher payout for gamblers in the following season, but virtually no one bets on it. At the end of season 24, however, several people all over the nation suddenly became millionaires overnight after placing a small sum on Girl #25. An investigation was launched to see if the win had been rigged, but it was determined to be legitimate, although some people still called foul.

That's what sparked the controversy. People began to argue who the better Girl #25 had been. Sure, it was always debated which season's victor could kill the others (_"Season 14's winner Boy #15 would have totally raped and murdered Season 20's winner Girl #4!"_), but those two girls were especially debated. Season 23: the current record holder, Leslie; season 24: finishing a scant one minute twenty three seconds over the record, Lisa.

_Leslie._

_Lisa._

Every part of them was analyzed – childhoods growing up, physical and psychological characteristics, _everything_. They became more famous than any of the other winners, past or future, anywhere in the world. It was slowly accepted (although still highly debated) that those two girls were the greatest contestants ever to take part in The Program.

So far.

_And I got to meet her._

Zeke giggled like a little schoolgirl upon the memory. He'd actually met the record holder: Leslie, The Golden Haired Angel. He'd always felt more drawn to her over Lisa, The Raven Haired Demon, anyways. Leslie had won first, plus she was the record holder, even though Lisa came close. Besides, although the government determined that no rules had been broken in Lisa's victory, Zeke wasn't completely convinced. In a fair fight, Leslie could kill Lisa, no questions asked. Her performance in the classroom was enough to convince him.

Zeke thought back to the blonde wig back in his bedroom, the one he had worn to the last BR convention. He could still remember standing with all the other Leslie supporters as they faced off against the Lisa supporters in their black wigs. Blondes versus brunettes. He smiled at the memory.

Zeke knew a winner when he saw one.

_Because I'm a winner too._

It wouldn't be easy, but Zeke had that kind of influence inside him also. Someday there would be "shaved-head" wigs for people to wear to honor him too. He'd join the leagues of the Chosen, whose lives were proven to be worth more than their peers'. And as much as he honored both Girls #25, it would be _his_ name everyone would remember. Zeke, Boy #22, the greatest contestant of The Program. Of Battle Royale.

**EVER.**

Zeke swung his axe down, gripping the handle tightly in his hands. He leaned on it like it was a cane, glancing in all directions. Looking for the slightest hint of movement, listening for the slightest echo of noise. He knew they were out there, he could _feel_ them. Zeke could sense their fear in the hairs that stood up on his arms, could taste the bloodlust that was slowly growing amongst them.

The boy couldn't care less, however. Out there in the playing field, he was king. He was the master of this domain, and it was about time everyone else knew it too. But they _would_ all know.

Soon enough.

-R-O-Y-A-L-E-

"You two are good friends," Heather said, "It's obvious. And while I'm happy you two have each other in this…this awful time…"

David and Jacob glanced at each other briefly and then returned their gaze to Heather. David seemed a little lost where Heather was going, but Jacob had a feeling that he knew.

"You miss your friends," Jacob said, "The other FLAs?"

Heather glanced off to the side, looking almost slightly embarrassed. She finally managed to say, "Well, not _all_ of them."

"You want to go out looking for them?" David said, trying to contribute to the conversation. The boy could sympathize with the girl's intentions. Even though he was already feeling better about Alexa abandoning him, a part of him still wanted to go out and find her. He could still see himself fantasizing about it, how he'd arrive at just the right moment to whisk Alexa away from harm. How grateful she'd be towards him, she'd have no choice but to fall in love right away.

He shook those thoughts from his head. He needed to be more logical, and not simply buy into his day dreams.

However alluring they may be.

"No," Heather said, "It started with them. I saw you guys, and I wondered who I would want to have with me here. And I thought what would happen if Alexa came back. I've…just been doing a lot of thinking."

David wondered himself what would happen if Alexa returned. It was another of his fantasies, how she would crash into the room, dirty and bloody and hysterical. How she would run over to him, beg him to save her from the evil people out to get her. How he would bravely protect her from –

There, he was doing it again. David needed to get the girl out of his brain. He needed to accept the fact that she didn't care for him - she probably didn't even like him that much. She sure as hell didn't trust him, or else she wouldn't have run off in the first place.

"I think we should start a Gathering," Heather said.

"What do you mean?" Jacob said as he eyed her suspiciously. Jacob had always been a little uptight, in David's opinion. But David appreciated a voice of reason to his spur-of-the-moment antics. Plus, they didn't come any more loyal than Jacob. The boy was a true friend, and David was glad to have him.

"We could be a safe house, a place where people can come to relax in the presence of other people who aren't playing," Heather said, "A Gathering."

The two boys stayed quiet for a while after that. A long while. They bounced the idea inside their brains over and over again. Minutes passed as the boys considered Heather's suggestion. David glanced over at Jacob, at the boy whose eyes squinted in concentration. Jacob bit his lip.

"I think it's dangerous," Jacob said, "A little _too_ dangerous. Perhaps not worth the risk."

"I'm a little skeptical too," David admitted, though he didn't add that he wasn't as against the idea as Jacob clearly was.

"I understand you completely," Heather said, her voice getting a little louder without her even realizing it. Jacob lowered his hands, motioning for the girl to keep her voice down, and she nodded. "I understand," she repeated in a softer voice, "But we have a good opportunity here. This place can house a lot of people. It can be a sanctuary for them."

"But do we _want_ a lot of people?" Jacob interrupted, "The more people we gather, the more likely we take in someone who will go nuts and kill us all."

"Or we can amass an army," Heather said, using her hand motions for emphasis, "And we can stand against the people who would pick us off one at a time."

"And when all those people are gone?" Jacob said, using hand motions of his own, "What happens when it's just us and the army?"

Heather was quiet for a moment, but then some strength appeared behind her eyes, and her voice lowered slightly. "What happens if it's just the three of us left?" She stepped toward Jacob, who narrowed his eyes at the girl. "What will you do then?" Heather said.

David watched as Jacob clenched his jaw, obviously upset by the girl's question. No one had an answer for the endgame. Nobody could see that far into the future, no one could know how they would feel after hours in The Program. He kept glancing between the two of them, feeling slightly obligated to back his best friend, while at the same time finding himself swayed by Heather's logic.

"Okay, forget about the endgame," Jacob said, "How do we let other people know where we are – a flashing neon sign? Or better yet, how do we know who to trust?"

Heather smirked like she'd been waiting for Jacob to ask about that. "I don't know about alerting other people to our location," Heather said, turning to her duffel bag, "But I can help us with the trust factor." The boys watched as she reached down and unzipped the bag.

"It's strange," she said turning back to them, "That neither of you thought to ask me about my designated weapon." She handed each boy a manila folder. Both took them, although Jacob slightly more hesitantly. They opened the folders, only to discover that they couldn't read in the dark. They moved closer to the window and began to scan the pages in front of them.

"This is me!" David said in an excited voice, perhaps a little louder than he anticipated. Jacob gazed up at his friend, and then down at the pages he was holding. There it was - a full dossier of Jacob as a contestant. A physical and psychological evaluation, followed by his expected performance. The pages following the original document were every aspect that could be dug up on his life: personal relationships, work habits, after school activities, grades from the day he had started school.

_Everything._

It frightened Jacob a little bit, seeing his whole spread out before him inside this manila folder. David clearly looked uncomfortably moved as well, and both boys returned their gaze to Heather.

"I have one on every student out here in the playing field," she said, stepping forward and taking the folders back. "My weapon is _knowledge_."

A full ten minutes passed in silence. Jacob stared down at his empty hands as if he were still scanning the documents that had just rested there. David stared out the window in a daze, words repeating themselves over and over again inside his mind. Before Heather had grabbed the files back, David had glimpsed enough of the contestant evaluation form, enough of his dossier.

_They expect me to die within the first twelve hours._

As terrifying as the thought was, David didn't have long to consider it to the full extent he intended.

"Hello?" a voice seemed to appear out of no where. The three people stared at each other, glancing back and forth between the other two, all of their faces asking the same question.

_Who just spoke?_

The little inkling in the back of Jacob's mind finally jumped to the forefront of his thoughts, and a bolt of terror raced through his entire being.

"The second floor!" Jacob hissed to the other two, "We never checked the upper floor! Someone's been here_ the whole time!_"

-B-A-T-T-L-E-

_Don't forget._

The words repeated themselves over and over inside Isabelle's (Girl #4) head. Without warning, they would simply rise up inside her consciousness, roll around several times, and then disappear into the flow of her thoughts, leaving only questions in its wake. There was no trigger to the words - they came to Isabelle when she sat quietly inside one of the wooden shacks, when she silently crept through the forest, when she nearly tripped scaling a small peak by the mountains. They seemed to arise randomly, but they persisted.

_Don't forget._

"Don't forget what?" Isabelle whispered to no one. She sat on the dirt road that stretched along the mountain range on the southwestern side of the playing field. The dirt path continued onwards, but Isabelle saw no need in climbing any further. From her current spot, she could see the whole town illuminated in the soft glow of the moonlight. And she could even make out the ocean far in the distance. The sight could be considered by some to be beautiful. But Isabelle only felt sick.

The girl could picture her entire family sitting around the television, waiting for an update on her progress. It was a good thing her parents had purchased a big screen TV, because her family was certainly larger than most. Ten, yes, TEN siblings. The oldest two were both 27 (twin boys) and continued down to the youngest, who was eight. Isabelle, at age eighteen, was the sixth child born to her parents, and to say that it was a circus at her home would be an understatement. She loved her parents, and all her siblings too, each in different ways, of course, but Isabelle sometimes wished she was an only child. Or at least she could be left alone every once in a while.

The Program wasn't exactly what she had in mind. It wasn't the kind of space she (or anybody) wanted. She wondered how they would take it, how her family would respond to her absence. A part of her questioned whether they would notice at all, since it was easy to get lost in the middle of such a large group. But she shook away the idea, knowing that he parents loved her, like they loved each of their children. Of course they would notice that she was missing. Of course they would care about her life, about whether she would come home to them from The Program. Of course they would all gather around the television to pray and watch for Isabelle's safe return.

_Don't forget._

The words repeated themselves to the girl. But for the life of her, she couldn't place them. What wasn't she supposed to forget? Was it something she already had forgotten? Maybe some subtle piece of information that was more important than it seemed? Or maybe it was a little mantra – a way for her mind to remind her of what was really important. Well, there was her family, but she doubted she could forget them, even if she tried. There was also her good friend Dwayne (Boy #14) who was running around somewhere in the playing field. She wouldn't forget to start looking for him.

_Ms. Kishimoto…_

An all-too-familiar ache erupted in Isabelle's chest. The girl pulled her legs in close, hugging them tightly against her body. There was no way, NO WAY, that she could ever forget about Ms. Kishimoto. But she wasn't ready to think about the woman, not there in The Program.

Not yet at least.

Isabelle rested her head against her knees, feeling the darkness swell around her. The oblivion that surrounded her was almost palpable. Isabelle was sure that she could reach out and wrap the shadows around her fingers. Was she experiencing what it truly meant to be alone? It was more terrifying than she ever could have imagined.

She closed her eyes, but it was almost the same as leaving them open. She couldn't trust her eyes – the shifting shadows hid the danger that came to claim her life. She couldn't trust her ears – the echoes of predators from afar caused her to jump in fright at the slightest whisper. The only thing she could trust completely was her weapon. Isabelle reached into her pocket, pulling her designated weapon out into the open.

The soft beeps and the added light emitted from its screen was a small comfort. But the larger comfort was the series of spots that flashed into existence on the small gizmo. She knew, thanks to that collar detector, that no one was anywhere near her. Isabelle breathed a sigh of relief, letting her body relax. She remained that way until once again her muscles tensed up at the mention of two words inside her brain.

_Don't forget…_

-R-O-Y-A-L-E-

The three contestants stared at the stairs in horror. None of them could move, none of them could blink, none of them could even _breathe_. At the first sound of a footfall, Jacob could feel his heart descend into his stomach. He watched Heather twitch at each step as they came closer, slowly moving down the stairs. He told himself to grab the hammer in his pocket, to do _something_ to protect the three of them. But Jacob's arms refused to move.

If Jacob were, instead of standing motionless in that town hall building, sitting on his couch, munching chips, he'd roll his eyes and say, "Why? Why are they all just standing there? Are they just waiting for the guy in the hockey mask and chainsaw to appear before trying to escape?"

But it wasn't a horror movie. Jacob knew that they should all run, that they should find some new place to hide, but none of them could do anything. It was like the footsteps weren't enough – that as long as the intruder didn't appear, there was no reason to escape.

_But they're coming!_

The figure appeared at the foot of the stairs, and Jacob moved faster than he thought he imagined he could. The hammer was in his hand, smoothly and fluidly, like he was unsheathing a samurai sword. The figure recoiled in fear, raising its hands in defense.

"Please, stop!" she said, taking a step backwards. Jacob hesitated for just a second, and was shocked to see movement at his side. David raced behind the figure, and Jacob heard the handcuffs click into place. Jacob felt a wave of relief, knowing that David was there to support him. He wouldn't have to defend the three of them alone.

"Don't hurt me!" the girl said, he face illuminated by the moonlight, "I thought you said you were gathering people together!"

The three of them stepped away from the girl, putting some distance between them. She struggled slightly at first, but then dropped to her knees, taking a few deep breaths. She stared up at them, her face full of fear (if she had been tricked into a trap), full of anger (since she was now at their mercy), and full of indignation (that she had been lied to about sanctuary).

Perhaps the three of them would have said something sooner, but all they could do was stare in shock at her. Bridget (Girl #19), a member of the College Crowd. Minutes passed. Slowly - each an eon is its own right.

"Why won't any of you talk to me?" Bridget asked quietly.

"Because your reputation precedes you," Jacob said at last, the words lingering in the space between them.

"Because I'm a Crowd-er?" she said, and then shook her head angrily, "That's not fair! None of that matters here in The Program!"

"Are you sure?" Jacob said, taking the lead on the interrogation, "How do we know there aren't more of you up those stairs?"

"Go and check then," Bridget said, her eyes lighting up, "Then you'll know I'm telling the truth."

"I'm not going to risk walking into a trap," Jacob said, "I'm sorry, you're out." He turned to David and Heather, "We can't trust her." He was surprised to see some doubt in their faces. David looked off to the side, while Heather glanced back down at Bridget. She bit her lip.

"We won't be able to have a Gathering if we don't trust a little bit," Heather said, turning her gaze toward Jacob.

The boy's eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open. He stood there for a minute, trying to see if Heather was serious, actually _serious_, about allowing a College Crowd-er into their midst. Alone or together as a group, they were _all_ dangerous. Why take a big risk on Bridget? Who knew what she was capable of?

Jacob wondered if the other two were underestimating Bridget because of her small stature, or the curly blond hair that resembled Shirley Temple's locks. Her attempt to appear youthful and innocent and pure wasn't lost on Jacob. Sure, some people who didn't know her might be surprised that the precocious-looking Bridget was involved with the College Crowd at all. But she _was_ involved! All three of them knew what she took part in; they couldn't allow that information to pass by, unacknowledged.

"Don't you know who this is?" Jacob said, "Haven't you heard of the things she has taken part in?"

Heather returned Jacob's stare as long as she could, before returning her gaze to Bridget. Bridget said nothing in her defense, in fact, it looked like she was surprised that she was being judged as a member of the College Crowd at all.

As if there were more important things going on around them all than mere labels.

"You must have heard about their parties," Jacob continued, eyeing David in addition to Heather, "the kinds of stuff goes on there – the orgies, the drug use, the people who are there in addition to students. You want to put your life in _her _hands?"

Bridget still said nothing, her eyes boring holes into Jacob's head. If she was embarrassed about her behavior before The Program, she sure wasn't showing it. If anything, she looked angry at being judged so harshly. The blond curls framed her heart-shaped face, and she continued to sit there, like a five-year-old sentenced to a time out.

Jacob threw his hands up into the air, "Who knows what kind of information she and the rest of the College Crowd had hanging over the rest of the school, never mind the rest of the city!"

"But that's why I'm an asset," Bridget spoke finally, her voice low, "I have information on lots of people, information you won't find in those folders." She motioned towards the folders Heather had removed from her bag.

"I doubt your blackmail will be useful here," Jacob replied, sounding a little harsher than he anticipated. There was no personal angle that he was playing, Jacob was one of the few students who had avoided the College Crowd's parties entirely, so he wasn't getting revenge for information that had been gathered on him. He simply didn't trust Bridget. She or any other College Crowd-er would only lead them to their death. Bridget couldn't be allowed to stay – under any circumstance.

"I know more than the incriminating evidence we've gathered through the years," Bridget said, "I know who to _trust_."

The three people looked at the shackled girl sitting on the floor, her legs crossed. Her eyes met each in the eye before she continued. "I've seen almost everyone at school at their basest level. Even the quietest mouse is capable of things you wouldn't expect, when placed in the right circumstances."

They were all quiet as Bridget took a breath. "Do you really think you know anyone in this situation? I've seen almost everyone in this playing field at their most primitive level. I've seen them driven completely by lust, observed them lose themselves in a drug-induced bliss, watched them perform for their peers to feel accepted. I saw everything. Primal. Animalistic."

She unhooked her legs and stretched them out in front of her. Bridget let out a soft grunt and looked like her arms were beginning to ache from their position behind her back.

"After all, what's a bigger primal urge than survival?"

Jacob glanced over and David, who returned the stare, eyes looking doubtful. Heather took a step back, and then gazed over at her contestant folders.

"You don't know who is dangerous and who is trustworthy," Bridget said, "I _do_." The three observed her closely. The girl seemed sincere, appeared to be telling the truth. Was she worth the risk of keeping her around? It seemed that she did have some useful information to offer, but was the whole thing a trap? Could they really trust anything the girl said?

"How do we know we can trust you?" David said, "Assuming we believe what you're saying?"

Jacob quickly turned his head toward David, his eyes wide. Fear quickly rose inside his chest. There was no way that David was actually considering her proposal, right? The girl was simply spewing lies left and right – she had seen everyone at their most animalistic level, had she? And what was she doing in the meantime – taking notes? No, she was just like the rest of them, drinking and fucking and all the rest.

_SHE CANNOT BE TRUSTED!_

"Why not read up on me?" Bridget suggested, and once again motioned toward the contestant folders. "They should tell you everything you need to know, right?"

Jacob hated to admit it, but the girl was right – those documents should inform them of Bridget's whole life. He was the first to move, searching quickly through the numerous folders. He found her, and opened the file, his eyes quickly scanning the sheets. Everyone was quiet as Jacob read them to himself. David cleared his throat, and Jacob glanced up before nodding and reading out loud.

"Girl # 19 – Bridget

Designated weapon: marijuana and lighter…"

Jacob paused and glanced at Bridget, who shrugged and mentioned that both the pot and the lighter were upstairs in her duffel bag. Jacob returned his eyes to the folder.

"Member of the College Crowd group. Seemingly low ranked in said group, used mainly in drug trafficking. Suspected victim of…" Jacob trailed off for a second before taking a breath and saying, "…child molestation." Bridget seemed to recoil slightly from that piece of information, and her gaze drifted off to her side for a second.

Jacob continued: "The contestant, with the inner trauma inflicted upon her from childhood, will likely crack under the anxiety and pressure of The Program. She will probably seek out the other members of the College Crowd, and will be eliminated once she finds a more ambitious contestant from said group. Designated weapon will only increase contestant's paranoia once consumed, leading to her eventual and inevitable death."

Jacob stopped reading, ignoring the documents behind the personal dossier and additional information included. He couldn't help feeling that he had crossed over into private territory – that the information he had just read was nobody's business, and he felt guilty for orating the written document.

"Does that sound like a threatening person to you?" Bridget said, her voice softer than it had been. Even though he felt he hadn't been particularly judgmental, Jacob felt bad for being so harsh to Bridget at that moment. He sighed softly and approached the girl who still sat on the floor. He tossed the file to her and it landed on the floor with a soft flap.

"This kind of information belongs only to you," he said. He faced Heather and David, putting his hands in his pockets. "If the two of you agree to keep her here, then I won't complain." He paused for a second, "But the handcuffs stay on a while longer. The Program expected Bridget to lose her mind, or to contact other College Crowd-ers. She didn't do either, so we can place some faith in her for now."

Jacob turned back toward Bridget, who had finally risen to her feet. "But until we know for sure that your intentions are good, the cuffs stay on you."

"That's fine with me," Bridget said, nodding before squatting down. She stepped her legs through the loop made by the handcuffs and her arms, so that the girl's shackled hands were now in front of her. While bent over, Bridget picked up her folder, and held it close to her chest.

"Thank you," she said with a soft smile, and then headed for the stairs. She stopped, and turned back saying, "I'm going to go grab my duffel bag. Does someone want to come with me to prove I wasn't lying about being alone?" The three other people looked uncomfortable at venturing upstairs, but Jacob nodded and followed her up the stairs, hammer in hand.

Hidden in the darkness of the stairway, Bridget took a breath of relief. A part of her felt ashamed that she had used her past to gain pity points and convince the three others into letting her stay. She knew if those personal dossiers were as comprehensive as the others had claimed, then there would be some documentation of her…ordeal from her childhood in the personal file. Bridget had been right, and that one piece of information had overridden her character as a member of the College Crowd.

Bridget couldn't have asked for a better outcome. She had heard the three of them talking from the top floor, and the second she heard about the contestant files, she knew she needed to see them. It had been a risk to venture down to see them, but it was worth it in the end. Bridget had been accepted in with the other three – the only other thing left to do was to read those contestant records. Not only that, but with her own file in hand, no one would discover any other information about her – the rest of her secrets were intact, especially her biggest one…

But she didn't worry about that – she'd hidden it too well, set herself up too flawlessly. No one, not even the government (according to the personal dossier that was read aloud) knew her secret. She would use it, and the rest of the data in those personal files, to the best of her ability.

Information could be used in no better way.

-B-A-T-T-L-E-

A few quick breaths.

A furtive glance off to the right.

Three quick strides up a steep slope.

A sly glimpse to the left.

Stifled breathing.

And suddenly, there she was, standing atop the mountain range. Far below her, the entire town bathed in a soft moonlight.

The moon's glow seemed to surround her, to embrace her.

Her chest heaved, and the sweat glistened on her forehead.

She fixed the strap of her duffel bag on her shoulder, and then, feeling the ache in her arm, adjusted it to her other shoulder.

Palpable fear.

It tasted metallic, like copper.

Like blood.

This would not be easy. No, not at all.

But necessary.

There was no more time to waste.

A soft noise erupted on her right, and she turned toward it, eyes wide. She waited.

Silence.

She looked up at the moon, as if asking for its protection. Her raven-black hair was in a tight bun, and the moonlight shone down on her neck.

Her bare neck.

Collarless.

Current Danger Zones: 28

Pending Danger Zones: none

(46) Contestants Remaining


	7. Better to Have Loved and Lost

She'd never seen a naked male before.

Well, that wasn't completely true. There was that one time when she was seven, and one of the boys in her classroom had a seizure or something, and ripped all the clothes off himself. That poor boy hadn't lived that down for _years_. They still called him The Uncut Turtle, as far as she was aware. She still wasn't exactly sure why he was named that, and she wasn't sure she wanted to know.

So she'd never seen a naked _man_ before.

Well, that wasn't right either. She remembered, maybe it was only a year or two ago, when she had become curious. After all, knowing the facts about sex wasn't the same as seeing it, as experiencing it. She wanted to be ready, and a quick internet search brought many, _many_ sites that gave her an eyeful. There was a certain grotesqueness to it all, the thrusting, the sweating, the actual _act_ itself. What was the saying? Like watching a train wreck? Couldn't look away? That was a good way for her to describe it. Watching the man put his…_thing_…inside the woman, watching them move back and forth against each other.

Barbaric.

Animalistic.

And yet, the expressions on their faces told her that they enjoyed it. That there was something more going on than just the physical aspect of sex. She was intrigued by it, up until the man shot his white DNA onto the woman's face, and Dawn (Girl #5) had turned the computer off in disgust. But still, the thoughts remained in her head. Sex was special, or it was supposed to be.

So she'd never seen a naked man _in person_ before.

Up until that moment. He'd undressed faster than Dawn thought possible. She'd always imagined it a little differently. Soft music, dim lights. Slowly undressing each other, exploring unknown territories. Something a little more romantic, something a little more sensual. But then again, Dawn never really pictured her first time like this. The blinding terror, the forest, the collars…everything.

And while she was at it, Dawn supposed that she never really expected Oliver (Boy #16) to be her first time either. After they hit their one year anniversary, Oliver had been dropping some not-so-subtle hints that it was about time they made their relationship more physical. But Dawn was unconvinced. She was no prude, and had no intention of waiting until marriage. A part of her truly wanted to give in to Oliver's advances, but there was always something holding her back. The fear of pregnancy, or an infection, or AIDS, or HPV – it all seemed a little scary. And for what? A few minutes of pleasure?

But there was something else, something that traced back to that first time she'd ever witnessed the sexual act on her computer screen. The idea that sex was a representation of something more – love, respect, generosity. Dawn wasn't sure that sleeping with Oliver would satisfy her in those areas. She knew she was being a little unrealistic, but to what other standards could she hold herself? What was wrong with wanting a little more than what was on the surface?

So what changed her mind? Put simply, it was The Program. Death loomed in her future, and with that hanging over her head, the rest of her fears took a back seat. Pregnancy? STDs? Dawn doubted she would be living long enough for either of those to cause a problem for her. As far as her other conditions, well, Dawn couldn't hold out any longer. She didn't have any more time to be idealistic.

She knew this was coming – could almost hear him asking her while she waited for him outside the school. Could picture the words while they walked through the forest, hand in hand. Hell, right as he was in the middle of his proposition, she cut him off with a quick, "okay." And his clothes had gone flying.

Which brought her back to reality. He stood before her, completely nude, already erect. Dawn took a moment to size him up, but then realized that she wasn't sure if he was big or small, since she didn't have a good reference to compare him to. She bit her lip, as her eyes took him in. His hair was a little disheveled from ripping his shirt off, but the rest of him looked sleek and smooth. He had very little body hair, except around his groin, and Dawn wondered if it was supposed to be black, or if it should have been dirty blond, like the hair on his head. There was a nice way his body was shaped – the moonlight created shadows in his muscles, making him look like he was sculpted from stone.

She smirked to herself. Dawn had to admit that her boyfriend was very attractive, and the way Oliver was eying her, the grin on his face – it brought some color to her cheeks. She could still feel the slight hesitation at the back of her mind, but she shook it away. She wouldn't let anything ruin this experience for her. It was most likely going to be the only instance she would be able to enjoy in this playing field.

The forest swelled around them. The trees shook each other, the branches of one tree rustling those of another, and so on. The pair had found a small clearing, where the ground seemed a little softer, and fewer rocks appeared to be hidden beneath the surface. There was almost a rhythmic swaying to the nature that surrounded them, like Mother Earth was egging the pair on.

_Go ahead,_ Nature whispered, y_ou are only doing what comes natural to you._

"Are you ready?" Oliver took a few steps toward her. Dawn bit her lip and gazed off to the side as she slid her pants down to the dirt. She felt a little embarrassed at first, but the expression on Oliver's face, the awe that shone in his eyes, it made her feel striking, like no one could be compared to her. It wasn't something Dawn was used to experiencing.

That feeling didn't leave her as he wrapped his arms around her, leading her down to the dusty soil. She could still feel it as Oliver gently laid her down, positioning himself close to her body. In fact, Dawn continued to feel incredibly special, right until the point Oliver pushed himself inside of her. It was then that everything disappeared, and she could barely keep herself from screaming.

-B-A-T-T-L-E-

He had waited for her – that had to count for something, didn't it? After all, if he had chosen to leave her behind, it would have been easy to do. His number was called before hers – he could have walked away, left her to fend for herself. But he didn't. He stayed. That meant something.

At least, it did to Meredith (Girl #15).

They'd been dating for about two months. When she thought about it, two months was practically nothing. Since school took up most of their life, the only times they were able to get together were the weekends. Two months worth of weekends was…eight weeks, two days a week, only 16 days. That was a little over two full weeks of dating. Barely any time at all! Meredith guessed she would have felt better if Dwayne's (Boy #14) reputation didn't precede him. The guy went through girls like tissues. Meredith was just his latest Kleenex. There was a pattern with him – he always broke up with his current girlfriend and met his new girlfriend at a College Crowd bash.

That was where she and Dwayne had hooked up. If she recalled correctly, he had been dating Joy (Girl #13) at the time. In fact, when Meredith thought about it, there were a bunch of girls in the playing field that Dwayne had history with (although there were also plenty that _weren't_ a part of The Program). What would happen if they ran into any of his exes? Would he feel obligated to protect them too? Or was his decision to wait for her outside the school a declaration of his commitment to her? After all, as far as she knew, she was the only female that had remained his girlfriend through a College Crowd fiesta. That had to count for something too!

Meredith shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. She continued to sit on the small boulder the pair had stumbled across while roaming the forest. Dwayne stood off to the side, his eyes far away, lost in thought. His face was partially hidden in shadow, and it made him look slightly menacing. Meredith found herself almost afraid of her boyfriend for a minute, but that vanished when he caught her eye and turned to face her, a soft grin covering his face. She smiled back, but no words were exchanged, and so Dwayne turned away again, his face relaxing, his mind traveling miles and miles away.

She wondered what he was thinking about so intensely. It probably wasn't the woods they were surrounded by, since it all looked the same in the darkness. If Dwayne hadn't been using his compass, Meredith suspected the two of them would have walked in circles for hours without realizing it. She never really knew how similar trees became once there were thousands of them.

Was he thinking about someone else? Meredith couldn't really imagine that Dwayne was occupying his thoughts with a previous girlfriend, since he never seemed like a guy who regretted breaking off a relationship. So, if anything, he was probably thinking about his friend Isabelle (Girl #4). The word around school was that the two of them had been having sex for _years_ and that whenever Dwayne got tired of his current squeeze, he'd head back to her for a change of pace.

Although, Meredith didn't know if that was true or not.

There was also the chance that Dwayne was mulling over some other girl. That seemed to make less sense, but it was definitely a possibility. The guy clearly only thought with the organ hanging between his legs. There were plenty of girls in the playing field – many of whom who wouldn't mind throwing caution to the wind for a last-minute fuck before exiting the game in a coffin. Perhaps he was reflecting on all the willing girls that were out there wandering around.

Or maybe he was simply thinking about Alexa (Girl #22).

"What are you thinking about?" Meredith couldn't hold it in any longer. She had to know. She wouldn't be satisfied until then.

"Huh?" Dwayne turned toward her, his expression asking her to repeat the question. She waited a second and then spoke again, reiterating the query. She watched him very closely.

"You know," he said, motioning to the area around them, "this whole thing. The Program, death, the other contestants, everything." He took a breath. "I'm trying to order it all inside my head, make sense of things."

Meredith nodded. It made sense to her, but deep down, she felt he was being vague. Avoiding the issue at hand. Dwayne could very easily be lying to her. And if that was truly the case, then he _had_ to be thinking about Alexa. It was the only explanation.

Since the moment she had introduced Dwayne to her best friend, Meredith had had the slightest inclination that there had been some chemistry between them. There was no proof of this, and it wasn't something that she could even describe. It was subtle things. Like when she'd talk to Alexa and casually glance over at him, he'd be staring at Alexa, almost like he was a little surprised or confused by her.

Like he was intrigued by her.

Meredith had tried asking Alexa about Dwayne a couple of times, if he had ever hit on her, or attempted to kiss her, or something of that nature. But whenever he was brought up, Alexa would get quiet, and stare at her feet. Meredith wasn't sure if that was a confession, or if there was some other reason for it. She just knew she didn't like it.

There was something wrong with distrusting your best friend. There was supposed to be a reason that they were considered the best, wasn't there? But Meredith couldn't move beyond it. Was Alexa interested in Dwayne? Was it the other way around? Was this all just in her head?

As much as she hated to admit it, Meredith was glad that Alexa was not there with them. She felt like a horrible person (not to mention a terrible friend), but it was the truth. She had Dwayne all to herself – and she would figure him out, and their relationship, and The Program, and everything, even if it took her the whole three days. She wouldn't let anyone get in her way.

There was a soft rustle, followed by some heavy breathing, and then, finally a gasp. The couple stared off to the side, at the small feminine figure that had burst out at them from the forest. Dwayne took a step back, maybe in fear, maybe to prepare his body for a battle. Meredith nearly fell off the rock, digging her nails into the slight crevices for balance.

"Oh my God!" Alexa said, letting her duffel bag drop to the ground. She lunged at Meredith, wrapping her in a tight hug. The tears streaked down her pale face before she buried it into Meredith's chest. Again, the girl was nearly knocked from her seated position on the stone. Alexa's sobs echoed through Meredith's body, almost like they were emanating from herself, and not her best friend.

Meredith glanced down at Alexa, one of her hands, automatically, subconsciously, rested on the girl's back. Gently soothing her as the wails continued. Meredith slowly, forcefully, stared over at Dwayne.

He was smiling.

_SMILING._

She grit her teeth, feeling the anger swell inside her body. She didn't understand how this could have happened. The chances of Alexa discovering them in the forest…they were astronomical, weren't they? Not impossible, sure, but so unlikely that…that…

Meredith didn't even know how to finish that thought. The girl continued to cry, and Dwayne continued to smile, and Meredith just sat there, stroking Alexa's back, over and over again. She opened her mouth to say something, but the words were hidden from her, like she wasn't sure what it was she wanted to announce. Her eyes continued back and forth between them.

Alexa.

Dwayne.

Alexa.

Dwayne.

Cries.

Smiles.

Cries.

Smiles.

Cries.

_No,_ she thought, _this won't work._

She wasn't exactly sure what this thought entailed, but it was a clear bell in an otherwise echoing mash of noise inside her head. The relief of knowing that Alexa was still alive. The anger of Alexa intruding on Meredith's time with her boyfriend. The jealousy brought out by Dwayne's smile. The rage of an affair she wasn't even sure existed. The joy of having another ally in their presence.

_No, this won't work!_

It quieted all Meredith's other emotions and thought, a beacon of light in an empty abyss. Because she knew it to be true. One way or another, this arrangement – the three of them coming together – would not work.

Not at all.

-R-O-Y-A-L-E-

Her face was contorted into a pained expression, and honestly, it didn't make her any more attractive. He hadn't removed her shirt, because her lack of a bosom would have depressed him. It was bad enough that she was his first lay; he would have really liked to be able to look back at old photos someday and say to…his sons?...his friends?...his future wife?...someone, at least – to look back with _someone_ and point to some beautiful female and say, "See her? See that gorgeous girl right there? She was my first girlfriend, and the girl that I lost my virginity to."

Oliver sighed. He really shouldn't complain. It wasn't like he had any other girls that were willing to have sex with him – Dawn had been his only option for about a year. He hadn't had a lot of luck with girls in the past, and he never understood why. He didn't think himself particularly handsome, but he wasn't unattractive either. And some of the other guys on the football team – guys with less tone in their muscles, with more hair on their chests (and sometimes backs), with smaller dicks, with more acne, guys who were just plain _ugly_ – they would brag and boast about their sexual adventures in the locker room.

Oliver didn't think it was fair. And when his older brother (who, like the other football players, was getting a ton of ass, even though he was on the border of being just-too-short for a guy) gave him the advice that having a girlfriend (i.e. being unavailable) would make him irresistible to other women, he found the first girl who would date him.

Her name was Dawn.

She was pretty – not a babe, but she was cute, in certain ways. She didn't turn heads, but there was something sweet about her. She was thoughtful, and she had a warm smile, and when she drank too much, she liked to dance. She was a decent kisser too. And Oliver had considered himself lucky to have someone who he could enjoy for the time being, but that would also be someone he could easily forget when he found somebody better.

He watched her bite her bottom lip, and, for a second, Oliver thought that it was her way of telling him that he'd found the right spot. But when their eyes met, he saw the tears starting to form and she turned her head to the side. She bit her lip again. He tried to reposition himself, but he saw her wince in response.

Oliver had heard that sex wasn't really enjoyable for women the first couple of times. It made sense, but he had been hoping that Dawn would have been able to move beyond the pain to actually relish in the experience. After all, how could Oliver enjoy sex, knowing that he was hurting Dawn? It put a damper on the whole event.

He wouldn't let her ruin his first time. He never thought it would have taken him so long to actually get laid. He had expected the girls to fall all over him once it became common knowledge that he and Dawn were an item. But nothing happened. At all. And to makes things worse, Dawn hadn't been putting out either.

Oliver had been as much of a virgin as ever.

And he'd been forced to rely solely on masturbation to relieve the urges racing through his system at all hours. Three, four times a day. Maybe it would have been different if he had felt some relief from his one-handed sessions, but he never seemed to receive any satisfaction from it. In the bathroom stalls at school, in the locker room once everyone had left after football practice, sometimes in the middle of the night, he'd wake up and have to crank one out before he would be allowed to return, restfully, to sleep.

Maybe having Dawn around him made it worse. Knowing that a pleasurable release was so close to him, but still denied. Maybe that was what was driving his hormones wild. Regardless of all that, Oliver found himself enjoying the current sexual experience – it was much better than doing everything himself. He had waited too long for this moment to have Dawn spoil his good time.

So Oliver closed his eyes.

Inside his mind, he wasn't lying on the dusty soil, but rather a large, soft bed with red silk sheets. Above his head was a mirror that spanned the entire ceiling, and that stretched down three of the walls. She was positioned below him, showing off her flexibility by stretching her legs as wide as they could go. Her blond hair surrounded her head like a halo, and with her two hands, she was gently playing with her own breasts.

Maya (Girl #8) stared up at him with a drunken smile, and then ran her tongue over lips. Oliver couldn't help but smile himself, pushing himself deeper inside of her. He could hear Dawn yelp quietly, but inside his head, Maya threw her head back and moaned deeply.

"_Right there," _Maya said, _"That's it. Keep going!"_

He put more of his back into his movements, thrusting with more power, forcing himself further and further with each push.

"Ollie," Dawn said, her voice cracking with the strain, "You're hurting me."

"_Oh, yeah,"_ Maya said, _"Hurt me. Go ahead, get rough."_

He could hear his own breathing, quick gasps in the otherwise silent air. Dawn wasn't making any noises at all, except for the occasional quick inhalation of a painful breath. But that was just as well, because Maya was moaning and cursing like a sailor inside his thoughts. It drove him into a deeper trance, heightened his momentum, and he could feel the muscles in his back straining to maintain the force of his lunges. Maybe he would have slowed down, but Maya continued to egg him on. And damn, if it didn't make him feel so _good_.

"Oliver, please," Dawn said.

"_Oliver, please,"_ Maya said.

Another few seconds.

"Please, stop."

A whimper.

"_Please, don't stop."_

A moan.

"Stop!"

"_Don't stop!"_

"STOP!"

"_DON'T STOP!"_

"I'm almost there," Oliver finally spoke, feeling the building pressure of a climax. "Almost…finished…"

-B-A-T-T-L-E-

"I'm going to come," Oliver said.

Dawn wasn't exactly sure what about that statement terrified her so. Ultimately, she had known that sex would end in this manner. Women didn't always have orgasms – so sex usually ended when the man finished. But at that moment, Dawn was confused, like she hadn't been properly informed that Oliver would have to ejaculate at all…at least, not _inside_ of her. She felt stupid for not realizing it sooner.

But more than anything else, she was afraid. She sensed that his semen would be like acid, that it would start eating away at her from the inside out. Or that he'd simply keep filling her up with his white DNA, unable to stop, and that she'd drown in it. Her mind continued to show her horrific images of her decaying corpse, and Oliver still hunched over her, saying, "Almost there…almost there…"

She couldn't let him do this to her. He had hurt her, wouldn't stop when she asked, when she _pleaded_. There was no way she was going to let him finish inside of her.

No FUCKING way.

Her right hand lashed out, feeling around in the dirt. The dusty earth was kicked up, and she could taste it in the back of her throat, sense it inside of her nostrils. His drives into her were becoming even more pronounced, and Dawn knew she didn't have much time left. But in addition to that, the pain was excruciating. She felt like Oliver was stabbing her, digging a knife inside her entrails, jabbing her with a spear.

Dawn flailed both arms, and she moved her legs to push him off of her. He used his arms to hold her legs in place, and Dawn began to squirm more. The dirt continued to rise up and swirl around her, and she started choking on the dry, dusty earth.

"Get off of me!" she said, her voice a high pitch scream. Oliver ignored her, his eyes still closed. She reached up and slapped him, digging her nails across his cheek. His eyes opened wide in surprise. She could see that she had drawn blood from the side of his face. Without warning, Oliver removed one of his hands from her leg and slapped her across the face.

Her world spun, but she could feel that Oliver hadn't stopped thrusting. Her body went limp as her eyes filled with tears. She could taste blood in her mouth, and she suspected that Oliver had knocked a tooth loose.

_Maybe he'll finish fast and then leave me alone._

Dawn couldn't stop the sobs from escaping her lips. Covered in dirt, her body still aching from the sex, from the slap. She just wanted everything to go away. She wanted him to leave her alone, so that she could just shrivel up and perish. However, there was a terrifying thought that simply wouldn't go away: what if he wanted to do it _again_?

Dawn turned her head to the side, and was greeted by the sight of a large rock. It had been too close to her head for her to find it while she had thrashed around. In an instant, everything returned to her – the pain, the disgrace, the violation she was _still_ enduring. Her hand grasped the stone, and she gazed up at Oliver as he raised his head to the sky, his mouth open in a loud moan.

"I…" She struck him in the face with the rock.

"…said…" She hit him again.

"…get…" Again.

"…OFF!" And again.

The last strike did the job, knocking Oliver out of her and off to the side. The stone disappeared from her hand, but Dawn quickly scrambled away from him, crawling in the dirt. She was a few feet off when she turned back, drawing her legs in close. She watched him writhing on the ground – legs kicking wildly, face contorting with pain, clawed hands reaching up to the night sky. Dawn almost couldn't see him through the dust he was kicking up as he thrashed in the earth. She couldn't turn her eyes away as he slowed, arched his back, and spewed his DNA all over his stomach. The ejaculate was pale, and looked to Dawn like snot.

_That was almost inside me._ Dawn shivered at the thought.

Soon he stopped moving, and Dawn wondered if he'd tired himself out with all the lunging and flailing. She slowly stood, keeping her arms tightly hugged around herself. She took a step toward him, and then another. She waited for the dust to settle before moving closer, and she finally took in the sight.

His limbs were positioned at odd angles, although his manhood was as rigid as ever. His eyes were open wide. A little too wide. And there was blood on the side of his face, too much to be from the scratches she'd given him. That was when Dawn found the rock she had used to defend herself. It was wedged deeply into Oliver's temple.

It took a moment to register, but slowly the realization came to her.

She stood completely still for a minute, barely noticing the blood that was flowing out from between her legs and down her thighs. She tried to take a breath, discovered that she couldn't. Tried again, still no luck. The dark world surrounding her felt like it was tipping on its side, and Dawn was just trying to stay upright. She stumbled to her left, taking a quick step to balance herself. She couldn't seem to pull her gaze away from his eyes. They were completely round, and she could see they were already starting to cloud over.

She wasn't sure when it had started, maybe she had been doing it ever since she knocked Oliver off her. But Dawn quickly discovered she was screaming. And she couldn't stop. Her voice was cracking, and she could feel the strain in her throat, but every exhale was a shriek, and there seemed no end to it.

She needed to escape, needed to run away.

So she did.

Dawn raced off, screaming, into the forest, leaving behind her duffel bag, her weapon, food, water, map…

And her dead boyfriend.

-R-O-Y-A-L-E-

There was a pounding in her head that simply refused to go away. Every time her heart beat inside her chest, there was a throb of pain inside her cranium. Like there was something inside her skull, trying to poke its way out her forehead. She was still trying to quiet her breathing, to stop hiccupping every time she inhaled.

"Feeling better?" Dwayne asked. Alexa nodded. She hadn't intended to throw up, and she didn't have very much in her system anyways. But she _was_ feeling better. Though, perhaps, not as good as she had anticipated. Meredith was blatantly distant, and Alexa wasn't sure what was wrong. Meredith had barely said three words to her since her arrival – not much of a welcome in Alexa's opinion.

On the other end of the spectrum, Dwayne had seemed rather chatty, trying to verbally calm her down and soothe her. It was sweet, but not something she anticipated from him. It was, instead, something she expected from her best friend.

Meredith.

Who was still sitting on that rock, eyes locked on Alexa, but slightly unfocused. Like she wasn't really _seeing_ the girl, like she was simply looking _through_ her. It was unsettling, and Alexa wondered if The Program had wormed its way into Meredith's mind. If there was some explanation for Meredith's behavior. Other than what Alexa suspected to be true.

_She doesn't want me here._

"Why don't you fill us in on what you've seen so far," Dwayne said, and after a pause, added, "If you feel up to it."

Alexa took a breath, and then turned to the side and spit out some saliva that tasted like bile. She reached into her bag and pulled one of the many extra bottles of water from inside. She twisted it open and swished some water around before expelling the vile liquid from her mouth.

"When I exited the school, no one was waiting for me," Alexa started. She glanced over to Meredith who hadn't responded to the subtlety of Alexa's comment. The girl sighed and continued. "I ran into two boys. One I recognized as David (Boy #3), a…friend, I guess you could call him. I joined up with the two of them for a while. They didn't seem to be playing, and without a weapon and no other allies, I didn't feel like I had any other options."

She took a breath. Dwayne nodded and smiled softly. Meredith still said nothing, still wasn't smiling. Still made no effort to display her relief of finding Alexa. If there was any relief to express. Alexa would haven been lying if she said that Meredith's demeanor didn't hurt Alexa's feelings. But that was nothing new to Alexa, at least, not since Meredith and Dwayne had started dating.

That's when everything had changed. Meredith, who had spent every day after school at Alexa's house and every weekend in Alexa's presence, had completely abandoned her friend to spend time with her new boyfriend. The natural response for Alexa was to get angry at being abandoned for a boy, but surprisingly enough (even to Alexa), she wasn't. In fact, she had been glad that Meredith finally had someone to share a romance with. She had to admit – she was a little jealous, but it wasn't until a little over a month and a half of not seeing Meredith at all that Alexa realized whom she was jealous of.

Dwayne.

She could feel it inside her chest, gnawing away at her at all hours, knowing exactly what was happening, but refusing to admit it. _She_ wanted to share those evenings and weekends with Meredith, just like old times. _Alexa_ wanted to be the person Meredith chatted with for hours and hours.

_She _wanted to be the one for Meredith.

"I walked around the town with them, and we stopped outside the town hall," Alexa continued, "The other boy – I forget his name – he walked in first. They were talking about a place to hide, a place to hole up, and wait out the game." Alexa tried to swallow, her mouth feeling fry. She took a sip of water to refresh her aching throat and remove the lingering taste of stomach acid.

"I don't know if I told you this," Alexa stared right at Meredith, "But David told me, in the past, that he likes me and-"

"You told me," Meredith said quickly. Alexa's eyebrows knitted, and an ache peaked inside her chest, if only briefly. The interruption by the short remark had been rude, and it solidified Alexa's belief that Meredith didn't want the girl around. She could feel an urge to cry rising from deep inside her gut. She glanced over at Dwayne to see if he was noticing the tears forming in her eyes, but instead the boy was _glaring_ at Meredith. Alexa clenched her fists and forced the sadness back into her body, repressing the negative emotions floating inside her head. She took a deep breath, calming herself, and continued.

"Well, while we were outside the town hall building, he – David, I mean – reached down and grabbed my hand. And I felt like he was doing all of this for me," Alexa paused and wrapped her arms around her body, "And, I just didn't feel safe anymore. Like, maybe David and his friend would try and rape me once we all got inside the building, or they'd just kill me, or something like that."

Alexa was telling the truth, but it wasn't the whole story. While her sudden fear and distrust of the two boys had played a major role in her break from them, there had been more. She had had a feeling that she would die inside the town hall, with two strangers as her only allies. And Alexa had decided, when she discovered she had the chance to escape, that she would rather risk her life trying to find her best friend, than attempting to survive with David and his friend.

She felt stupid. For plenty of different reasons she felt idiotic, but most of all because deep down, far inside herself, Alexa had deluded herself into thinking that Meredith would somehow feel the same way about her. That somehow, The Program would force Meredith to see Alexa not just as a friend, but also the perfect person to stay with. Someone to make Meredith whole, complete.

Just like Alexa felt.

But there, in the forest, she could see that Meredith had no interest in Alexa – romantic, friendly, or otherwise. A part of her seemed to have known this from the start, from that first moment Alexa realized she was in love with her best friend, a little voice had whispered:

_This won't work._

But she had shaken it away, sensing deep inside her soul that Meredith would return to her from Dwayne, with arms open wide, with a big grin. But Meredith's arms weren't open – they were folded tightly across her chest. And there was no smile – just a tight-lipped grimace.

A piece of her told Alexa to leave, to simply get up and walk away and not to look back. To give Meredith the space she so clearly desired, and to show her that Alexa didn't need a friend like her. That there were others who would look after Alexa, who would care about her, and would try to protect her. But the girl couldn't think of anyone who fit inside that category – there were other friends, sure, but none that were inside the playing field, and certainly none Alexa would trust her life with.

Meredith had been her support system – a sense of hope. While running through the dark forest, Alexa could cling to the thought that Meredith would help her, there she had a friend somewhere out in the playing field. But Alexa didn't even have that anymore. It had been snatched away, and with it, the girl's heart had been shattered.

She couldn't stop the tears from coming the second time around. They had risen so quickly that Alexa didn't have time to fight them. All she could do was feel them racing down her face, too many to wipe away. Her breathing became gasps as she struggled to keep herself silent. She buried her face in her hands, trying to hide herself in plain sight.

"Hey, don't worry," Dwayne said, "You're safe with us. Those guys won't be around to hurt you."

A wave of nausea rolled over Alexa, but she held the water inside her gut. She was thankful that she could explain away her crying. But it didn't make the ache leave her body, couldn't heal the wound that had split open inside her. She knew she should leave, should just grab her bag and go, but she couldn't do it yet. Alexa knew she would, eventually. Because deep down she still wanted Meredith to be happy, and if that meant leaving to fend off murderers in The Program alone, then Alexa would oblige.

But not yet.

She still wanted things to be different, still wished for the reciprocation of love that she was so ready to give. But Alexa knew that things would never be the way she desired.

_No, this won't work._

Not at all.

Current Danger Zones: 28

Pending Danger Zones: none

(45) Contestants Remaining


	8. Finder's Keepers

Lucy (Girl #?) slung the bat over her shoulder because it was the easiest way to carry it. She had tried using it as a walking stick, but the instrument was just a little too short for her to use, and it made her hunch over to walk in that fashion. So, instead, she walked upright with the piece of sports equipment at the ready, in case she needed to swing for the fences at any moment.

The forest was dark, but once her eyes adjusted, the moonlight was more than enough. There wasn't an overwhelming smell to the woods, just a soft scent of bark, and the aroma of a rose that still lingered on Lucy's fingers. Every once in a while she would inhale with her fingers near her nostrils, and she would smell the flower as if she was still holding it, but with the underlying scent of blood.

Did she feel any sense of guilt over the murder she had committed? Not particularly. She hadn't _enjoyed_ the experience, but she didn't regret it either. It was, unfortunately, how the game had to be played. If you wanted to live, you had to fight for it. You had to kill for it. If you chose not to do that, then you died.

One way or another.

She supposed that it would be the appropriate time for her to contemplate her existence. She was, after all, simply a disassociated identity created from the psyche of the girl who lay dormant inside her. On the surface, that would seem to be a deeply troubling and highly complex problem for Lucy to come to terms with, but it didn't appear to be bothering her that much.

Lucy supposed it was just the way she was made – she wasn't designed to be curious or questioning. She was simply there to do her job – the reason she was created. That purpose, which Lucy knew full well, was protection. She was just a defense mechanism – a highly functional one that was rooted deep in the subconscious – but she _was_ one nonetheless. It didn't seem necessary for Lucy to reason why she had been born, all that mattered at the moment was survival – for both her, and her creator.

The girl strutted through the forest, ducking low branches and stepping over obstacles as if she could sense them in advance. That seemed to be one thing Lucy had over her other self – a good sense of intuition. It was strange that Lucy could possess something that wasn't accessible to her creator, but again, it was something she didn't question and simply took as is. In fact, it appeared that it would work in her favor, because while everyone seemed to know what to expect from the creator, no one even knew about Lucy's existence – it was this advantage that Lucy could use to win The Program.

And speaking of being unaware, Lucy had the feeling that her host didn't know about Lucy's existence either. At the very beginning of her creation, her genesis, that's how the situation had been as well. Slipping into the creator's consciousness every once in a while, mostly while she slept, the host completely oblivious to Lucy's doings. But there had been that one mistake, staying in control for too long.

Far too long.

And that had been it, Lucy had been driven away, into a state of perpetual sleepiness. Not completely awake, but not asleep either. Just drowsy, with only tidbits of her creator's life drifting in and out. Lucy had been hidden away too extensively, in her own opinion. So long, it seemed, that her other self had forgotten Lucy all together. A part of her wanted to let loose, to really enjoy being in control again. But that's what had gotten her in trouble in the first place. And above all else, she needed to protect her creator. It was her reason for being born, the idea behind her existence. It didn't seem right to ignore that, not with so much at stake.

_**I exist for you,**_ she said to her creator, quietly dozing inside her own body.

The words sounded weak and submissive, but it didn't feel that way to Lucy. In a way, it was very liberating. She had a purpose, and an important one at that. She was self-preservation incarnate. The physical manifestation of the barriers that people built around themselves as protection from the outside world. It made Lacy feel natural, and inevitable. And to be so formidable, to be a force to be reckoned with while the rest of the population sufficed with passive aggressive behavior – it made Lucy feel special. She was grateful for her existence, and from that gratitude arose a feeling of duty, and a sense of pride. After all, very few people developed a disassociated identity in the first place, never mind one that could function on a psychological and social level like Lucy could. She would be the best damn defense mechanism that she could be.

And that entailed winning The Program.

Lucy knew that her creator had friends out there in the playing field. In fact, when it came right down to it, Lucy doubted that her other self had the capacity to actually _kill_ anyone. Lucy wasn't exactly sure how her host was planning on maneuvering through The Program, but she knew that she was the best chance for the pair to come out alive. And what kind of self-preservation manifestation would Lucy be if she allowed her creator to die?

Playing the game truly had very little to do with the rest of the contestants. Lucy had nothing against them, mostly because she barely knew them. Sometimes names came to Lucy with no face to match, and sometimes it was the other way around. She recognized the name of the group her host was involved with, although at that moment it escaped her. These people weren't Lucy's friends – they were simply the other contestants, obstacles standing in the way of her survival. Lucy suspected her other self would mourn the loss of some of them, but Lucy had no emotional attachments.

Lucy would have no qualms about killing any of the other contestants – friend of her creator or otherwise.

A soft whisper. The cracking of a branch, like the shattering of a mirror.

Lucy froze, her body tensing up. She stood still, waited. Her hand tightened on the handle of the bat, her fingers becoming clammy and wet. Another sound reached her ears, and the girl turned her head in the direction of the noise. Slowly, she lifted a leg, put it down. Another step. The sounds seemed to be getting louder, so Lucy deftly moved to the side, concealing herself in the shadow of a massive tree.

Four of them appeared, and Lucy was surprised that such a large group was moving through the forest as quietly as they were. True, a noise was made here or there, but for four people, it was relatively silent. The girl's eyes focused on the one in front. At first, she thought it was a boy, but Lucy corrected herself, realizing that it was instead a massive girl. In her hands was a large gun, and although Lucy wasn't sure what the name of the firearm was called, she knew it was powerful, and she immediately wanted it.

That would be a problem, however. If the three figures following behind the first were unarmed, then perhaps Lucy could have gotten the jump on the first girl, grabbing the gun and turning it on all four. But amongst the other weapons she could see, the others were carrying a machete and a tire iron. If Lucy made one move, they'd all attack.

She wouldn't stand a chance.

Maybe if the large girl was in the rear, Lucy could wait for the group to pass by and strike from the shadows with the bat, grabbing the gun before the others could turn around, before they knew what was happening. But that wasn't the scenario. She could still carry out that plan, cracking open the skull of the last girl and maybe stealing her machete in the process. But it was too risky for just a single kill, and Lucy didn't feel like trying to escape from bullets.

As much as it bothered her, she would have to let this group pass by unharmed. She considered following them for a short while, to see if an opportunity arose, but that too was dangerous. Could she tail this group without being discovered? Lucy didn't think so. If she had some better weaponry…

**_If only…_**

But Lucy could only work with what she was given. She watched them continue further into the woods, their footsteps echoing in the distance. Lucy sighed, and pulled out her map, followed immediately by her compass. She would travel around a little more in the darkness, wait until announcements were over, and then find a place to rest before sunrise. The girl had a feeling that more students would venture out of their hiding places once the sun appeared, and she wanted to be ready for them.

Everyone needed sleep – even people who technically shouldn't exist.

-B-A-T-T-L-E-

Tabitha (Girl #16) was last in line. It felt a little strange, to be last, because she was always the leader of the girl's hockey team. Even when she was only a freshman, the other girls looked to her for guidance, knowing all too well that the upper classmen would bully and mock the younger girls, while masking it as true concern. As the leader, she should have taken the point position; she should have been _first_.

This was a more strategic position, however. Paige (Girl #23) was in the lead with her all-powerful Uzi Carbine, allowing the girls to pass safely through the forest. Sabrina (Girl #17) was next, moving right behind Paige, her eyes and ears open and alert, constantly searching for hidden threats. Third was Felicia (Girl #11), who carried the tire iron loosely in her hand, while the one in the cast was once again at her mouth, the tips of her fingers being nibbled away. Tabitha had placed herself last, mostly because she knew someone needed to protect their flank, and since she, arguably, had the second-best weapon of the group, it seemed only natural to be her. To be honest, Tabitha would have preferred if Felicia handed over the tire iron to Sabrina, and then she could have placed Sabrina last in line.

But Tabitha wasn't even going to risk opening that can of worms. It was bad enough that she could sense, could practically _see_ the bloodlust radiating off Sabrina's body. Tabitha didn't miss the side glances Sabrina gave to Felicia's weapon when the girl wasn't looking. She didn't ignore the jealousy present in Sabrina's eyes when the girl gazed at Paige's gun, or Tabitha's machete. Tabitha could feel it, deep down inside her bones, that Sabrina wanted to _play_. And even though Tabitha couldn't imagine Sabrina going against the team in any manner, the idea frightened her. Sooner or later, she would need to talk to Sabrina about the bloodthirsty aura she was emitting.

Not here, though. Not in front of the others.

The last thing Tabitha wanted was to create more unrest amongst her allies. If Paige and Felicia fully understood how eager Sabrina seemed to annihilate other contestants, they could kick her out of the group, or worse, decide to kill her and eliminate a potential threat. Tabitha wouldn't let that happen. Sure, Sabrina was aggressive, and rowdy. She was known for being one of the few females to actually fight in girl's hockey, and had hurt some other hockey players, both in and out of the rink. But just because Sabrina was a bit of a thug didn't mean she couldn't be _trusted_.

Right?

If anything, Sabrina was the one Tabitha could trust the most. The girl was always talking about giving your all for the team, sacrificing body and mind so that the group could emerge victorious. It was a little communistic, but Tabitha couldn't ask for a better motivator. Sabrina was good at getting the girl's hockey team hyped up so that they would emerge from the locker room ready to wage war against the opponents. Sabrina was a team player, through and through. Hell, wasn't that the reason she was so against Felicia?

Tabitha's eyes settled on the back of Felicia's head. She bit her lip, an image flashing inside her mind – the Felicia that had once existed, before the cast, before the additional sixty pounds of weight. She'd been so confident then, so _graceful_. Felicia used to be able to skate circles around the other players, almost like she was dancing instead of chasing the puck. But the girl hadn't been on ice skates for…close to a year, if Tabitha remembered correctly. A good majority of the team resented Felicia for letting herself fall away from where she had been. And Sabrina seemed to be at the forefront of the animosity towards the overweight girl.

_But if they only knew…_

That was the point, however. They didn't know, not like Tabitha did. Sure, they asked why she had put on weight, how she had broken her arm – but it wasn't out of concern. They wanted to know why they had been denied trophies and awards and state championships and all the rest. They didn't really care why Felicia had changed. So Tabitha had kept her mouth shut; it wasn't really any of their business anyways.

However, Tabitha knew, perhaps better than anyone else, that Felicia wasn't the same person she used to be. Which meant that, as much as Tabitha wanted to, she couldn't place her trust in the girl. Not fully, at least. There had been a time when Tabitha would have said, without hesitation, that Felicia was her best friend, hands down. But that person didn't really exist anymore – it had taken Tabitha long enough to discover that. And with The Program looming all around them, hovering overhead constantly, it made Tabitha mourn the loss of her friend even more.

Tabitha hesitated slightly so as not to step on the back of Felicia's shoe. They were moving at a good pace, and while Tabitha was having no trouble keeping up, Felicia was slowly lagging behind, allowing a gap to form between her and Sabrina. Tabitha slightly urged her onward with her mind, hoping the positive thoughts would give Felicia the stamina to continue. She wanted to call out to Paige and suggest she slow down. But Tabitha wouldn't risk making that much noise. She instead placed her hand on Felicia's back, nudging her forward one step at a time.

_Just a little bit further._

Tabitha didn't know why Paige seemed to be moving so quickly. It was definitely safer to walk slowly and cautiously, but the girl in the lead wasn't slowing down for anything. If she had to hazard a guess, Tabitha suspected that Paige wanted to find shelter fast, and then immediately head back out to find her boyfriend, Neil (Boy #4). Tabitha had promised to send out search parties, and she intended to keep that promise. But her loyalty to her teammates would only go so far – she wouldn't place them all in unnecessary danger. It was only something she could ask of herself. _She_ would venture out with Paige in search of Neil, even if that meant leaving Sabrina alone with Felicia.

A horrific image came to her, where she and Paige returned to their home base, Paige in tears because Neil had been announced as dead, only to find the walls covered in blood, Felicia's body in pieces on the floor, and Sabrina no where to be found.

_What a horrible thought._

She willed the notion away, and instead, started her deep breathing exercises. A few exhales, and Tabitha was beginning to feel better. However, she had been too focused on her breathing to realize that the three girls in front of her had stopped. Tabitha bumped into Felicia, who released a squeak of surprise, followed immediately by saying, "You scared me!" a little louder than she should have.

Sabrina hushed Felicia almost immediately before glancing at Paige. The large girl was standing completely erect, her head staring off to her left. Tabitha followed her line of sight, but couldn't make out anything that existed in the oblivion.

"What is it?" Tabitha said in a voice barely above a whisper. Paige didn't respond right away, instead holding up a hand to silence the other three. Tabitha held her breath, silently waiting for an echo to reach her ears.

A stifled wail. A repressed sob.

And suddenly Paige was off and running.

"Hey!" Sabrina said in surprise, immediately taking off after the larger girl.

"Wait!" Tabitha hissed, realizing that she was speaking too softly to be heard by the two girls sprinting away. She took a few long strides before glancing back at Felicia, who stood completely still, nibbling her fingertips.

"Come on!" Tabitha said before taking off after her two teammates. She was running blind, and in the distance behind her, she could hear the gasps of Felicia struggling to keep up. Far ahead, she could see glimpses of moonlight reflecting off Sabrina's back.

"It's him!"

Tabitha wasn't sure who had said it, but the voice sounded close, and so she continued to run, despite the low-hanging branches that scratched at her face. A limb seemed to reach for her eyes, but with a quick hack of her machete, the obstruction fluttered to the ground as Tabitha rushed past. With a gasp, she came to a screeching halt, nearly plowing into Sabrina, who had stopped short. On the ground, she could see Paige hovered over a much smaller figure.

"I knew it!" Paige said a little too loudly, "It's him!"

Tabitha could see him as Paige shifted around to his side. The boy looked pale, perhaps even more so because of the dark makeup around his eyes and the black lipstick he was still wearing. His lip was pierced in two places, and he had a ring going through both nostrils. His eyebrows both had studs too, and Tabitha suspected that the boy had more piercings elsewhere on his body.

Neil held an ice pick in one of his hands, and even in the darkness, Tabitha could make out the blood that stained the tip. Paige cradled the boy's head against her chest slowly rocking back and forth. The boy was crying unabashedly, and making plenty of noise doing it. Tabitha was worried his loud wails would attract some unwanted attention, but it appeared that Paige was soothing him, lowering his voice, calming him down. It took a moment for Tabitha to notice that Paige was crying too.

"Oh, baby," Paige said in a soft voice as she wrapped him tighter, "You promised me. Why, baby? Why did you do this to yourself again?" Tabitha stared down at Neil's arms, watching blood flow from several cuts on the fleshy side of his forearms.

"I'm sorry," Neil said in a voice Tabitha guessed was supposed to be a whisper. "I'm sorry."

Tabitha continued to breathe hard, still recovering from her sprint through the woods. She glanced over at Sabrina, who merely gazed back and shrugged. They could hear Felicia lumbering closer and closer, until finally the girl emerged from the darkness. She doubled over, panting, trying to talk, but no words could be distinguished from her gasps. Tabitha put a hand on Felicia's back, patting it twice, as if to congratulate her for finally joining the rest of them.

Neil and Paige still clutched each other, rocking back and forth on the ground. Neil's arms continued to bleed, although the cuts appeared to be too shallow to be life threatening. The forest whispered around the group, possibly hiding threats amongst the leaves. Felicia gasped for more air, and when Tabitha looked over at Sabrina one more time, the girl shrugged again. Tabitha sighed, although she wasn't sure if it was in relief or frustration or merely physical exhaustion.

_At least that's one less problem to deal with._

But as she stared down at Neil's face, Tabitha couldn't help but wonder how many more problems might arise because of the boy.

-R-O-Y-A-L-E-

Mike R (Boy #19) always knew how he would react to a dead body. And oddly enough, it was because of the bathroom at his job.

He worked in a supermarket – but not like those poor saps stuck behind the register, or worse, forced to collect all those empty carts left strewn about the parking lot. He stocked the shelves, and while it was just as boring as bagging groceries, he didn't have the constant pressure of human interaction. He could go about his business, stocking shelves for hours, not being bothered by anyone. Except his boss, of course. A large woman who could lift crates and boxes that no one else could budge. And she always seemed angry too, especially, it seemed, at men in general. Mike R knew he was buying into a stereotype, thinking that his boss was an angry lesbian, but she appeared to fit the profile – plus he'd heard from some of the girls on registers that his boss had made a few unsuccessful attempts at the very attractive female floor manager.

When his boss became too much to handle, he'd make an excuse to visit the restroom. The bathroom had white walls and grey tiles along the floor. There were three stalls – the farthest of which was the "handicap" stall, and therefore had more space than the other two. Mike R would plant himself down there and just sit, sometimes with his pants down (if he really had to go) and sometimes not (when he just wanted to escape).

Mike R could never seem to take a crap when someone else was in the restroom with him. It was like his insides knotted themselves on purpose, and the boy would sit on the toilet, in agony, for minutes on end, waiting for the intruder to leave, trying to relieve himself.

The light to the bathroom was on a timer – probably to save on energy – and with no windows, no natural light could access the room. So whenever the boy pushed open the door to the bathroom and saw the darkness vanish as the lights automatically switched on, he would feel a sense of relief, knowing that no one else was already inside. That the boy could remove his bodily wastes in peace. Unless, of course, someone was inside the bathroom and stayed there when the lights had switched off.

That's how it had started.

_Why would someone stay in the bathroom with the lights off?_

Well, a person would stay in the darkness if they were some sort of creature looking for its next meal, or a serial killer searching for its next victim. These ideas gave Mike R the creeps, and he knew that it was just his fascination with horror movies that enabled these thoughts to circulate his mind.

Someone would stay in the pitch black bathroom if they _couldn't_ leave it. If they were paralyzed, or unconscious, or…

…_dead._

This idea, while just a horrific as his previous ones, made Mike R grin inwardly. If someone had been murdered inside the bathroom, then the lights would flick off, and some unsuspecting supermarket worker (Mike R, perhaps?) could, theoretically, stumble across the corpse, thinking that the restroom was empty. It was a game he played from then on – every time he opened the door, and the lights automatically turned on, Mike R would think:

_Is today the day I find a corpse in the bathroom?_

He could picture it clearly in his mind. He'd walk in, same old, same old. Push open the door to the handicap stall and stop. A man would be sitting there, pants down around his ankles, and Mike R would apologize for interrupting. But the smell of blood would reach his nose, and the boy would freeze, taking a closer look. He would notice the flies buzzing around the man, and the glazed look in the man's eyes. And finally he would see the gash on the man's throat, how the corpse was nearly _headless_ but not quite completely.

And what would Mike R do then? Scream? Run away in terror? No, not the horror movie junkie. He'd seen enough fake gore to be desensitized to the real thing. He would grunt to himself, and slowly leave the restroom. He would stroll over to his boss, wait for her to get pissed at him for some stupid reason, and he could just shrug and say, "There's a dead guy in the bathroom."

He could almost see how her face would contort, how she would just start screaming, right then and there, as if she had seen it herself. Maybe go running down the aisles, shrieking about a dead body in the bathroom. Maybe crash into a few old ladies with full grocery carts. Maybe run out into the parking lot, and trip over an abandoned cart.

The whole scenario made Mike R smile whenever he thought about it. Sometimes, when his boss was being a real bitch, he would pretend he would find _her_ corpse in the bathroom, and that always made him feel better too. The only occasion the idea actually scared him (just a little) was the time he brought a crossword puzzle into the bathroom, and he sat there, trying to finish it while sitting on the toilet. He had spent too much time in the restroom, however, and the lights clicked off eventually, plunging Mike R into total darkness. In that moment, he became terrified that _he_ wouldn't find a dead body, but rather, someone would find _him_, surrounded by flies, covered in blood. And the boy stood up, crossword puzzle in hand, pants pulled to his ankles, as he pushed the stall door open and tried to activate the motion sensor so that he could escape oblivion.

Mike R was sorely disappointed when he discovered his first _real_ dead body. Her throat was slashed open, just like he had imagined the man in the stall would be. Her limbs were strewn at awkward angles, and her hair lay matted against her body – wet and thick. And maybe, just maybe, Mike R would have responded to this corpse like he always imagined he would (with indifference, apathy, and a slight hint of badass-ness) if he hadn't tripped over her.

He had been distracted, glancing all around for movement, for sound, for other contestants who could easily sneak up and kill him, that the boy hadn't watched his feet. And he'd fallen over her, his face buried into the dirt. Unfortunately for Mike R, upon realizing that he'd found his first corpse, he did what most people in normal circumstances would do.

He screamed.

And he peed in his pants.

He was ashamed of himself. A horror movie fanatic like him, getting terrified over a dead body! It wasn't like she was a _walking_ corpse. And she wasn't too bloody either – just a quick, clean slice across her throat. It wasn't like part of her face was missing, or her limbs were torn off. Hell, most of the scenes in horror movies were a hundred times scarier than this dead girl! Mike R had watched aliens erupt from people's stomachs, had seen half-naked girls get their faces cleaved in half, had not even blinked when a man was fed his own fucking _brain_ for God's sake! And here he was, making his pants wet once again over a dead body.

Mike R let out a painful sigh.

He was being too hard on himself. Movies were _fake_ – even though most tried to be realistic. But horror movies were different; to appreciate them it was necessary to suspend one's disbelief a little bit. The average person watching a scary movie, whether conscious or not, was constantly aware that the horrific sights in the film were all staged, that it wasn't _real_. But The Program, the terror, the dead bodies – there was no suspended disbelief. There was no soft voice in the back of anyone's head, whispering that it was all phony, that the danger wasn't real.

Because it was.

The girl lying in a heap close to Mike R's body had, in the recent past, been alive. She had woken up in the kindergarten classroom, just like everyone else, and was told that only one would ever be allowed to return home. Maybe she had thought it would be her. Maybe, deep inside her chest, her heart had fluttered, thinking about her house, her family.

Mike R curled his legs close to his body. He sat there on the ground, staring at the corpse only a foot away. He wished he could remember her name – it seemed the least he could do. There was a flash of guilt inside his chest – this girl had died, had been _murdered_, and he couldn't even remember something as basic as her name. Sure, she had not been his friend, but she was dead, and he was alive, and it seemed that it was the least he could do.

But she most likely wasn't the only one dead so far. Mike R had been standing a few inches away from that FLA with his same name back in the classroom, when a bullet had punched a hole through the boy's face. And Mike R couldn't forget Nina (Girl #20). She was dead because of him – he'd chosen her to die. How many others were now corpses? Who else was like the girl before him – just the remains of a person? An empty shell?

_Selene…_

A terrifying thought crossed Mike R's mind. What if his girlfriend Selene (Girl #21) was one of those dead bodies? What if her name was waiting to be read off the list of dead contestants? He didn't have any more time to waste. He needed to find Selene as quickly as possible. Mike R glanced back at the corpse, as if to say goodbye to her, to apologize for her death. His gaze lingered on the two empty orbs that were her eyes. A breath caught in his throat.

_Have her eyes always been that scary, and I'm only noticing it now?_

It didn't seem possible to happen at night, but a shade fell over Mike R's body. The moonlight was bright enough to create shadows, apparently, because when Mike glanced up, away from the corpse, he saw that he was enveloped in a silhouette. One in the shape of a human. His first reaction was to freeze up, but his mind screamed to life.

_Run, you idiot!_

He tried to move his legs, but for some reason, they remained curled underneath him, like he was trying to morph into a ball and roll himself to safety.

_You're always criticizing those people in the movies, screaming at them to run away from danger!_

It was one of the habits Mike R had picked up from his mother. He never deluded himself into thinking that the people on the television screen could hear him, but yelling at them made watching the movies more satisfying. As if Mike R could say later, "See? You should have listened to me! I told you so!"

_If you want to live, RUN!_

He needed to make the threat real. That's what it was. Mike R couldn't see any harm coming from a shadow, but once he turned, and saw the person making the silhouette, then the danger would truly exist. He would find the strength to move his legs, to get his body off the ground and escape.

Mike R spun his head, and his eyes took in the figure of a male, standing just a few inches away. Mike R looked up at the face, but he couldn't make out anything in the dark. It was like the intruder had been shielded, been _made _of darkness, of emptiness, of oblivion. In fact, the only distinguishing feature that Mike R could distinguish at all was the gleaming knife clutched in the shadow's hand.

_RUN!_

The figure moved, only a half-step, but Mike R finally reacted. With a quickness he didn't think possible, Mike R extended a fist, digging it deep into the figure's crotch. He heard a whoosh of a breath, followed by a quick hiss of pain, and that was it. Mike R was on his feet, sprinting away from the corpse, from the shadow, from the knife.

-B-A-T-T-L-E-

"Do you know why James Bond can't exist?"

The little boy lay on the cold table. He was naked, except for a towel covering him from the waist down. He was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, noticing a small brown spot in one of the corners. He bit his lip, trying to stop himself from shivering, and finally shook his head.

"No," he said.

A man appeared in the boy's field of vision, staring down at him. The man wore a surgical mask, covering his nose and face. He had one brown eye, and one green eye, and anyone who noticed would have commented on how rare that combination was. But the boy had grown up with the man, spent a good six years with him, and so the different colored eyes made no impact.

"Well, you're still a little young to watch some James Bond movies," the man said, "But that guy sleeps with two or three women per movie. Sure, he's got cool gadgets and is suave and handsome, but more often than not, one of those women he sleeps with ends up being evil, and is just using him."

The boy nodded, as if to convey that he was still following the conversation. His small hands gripped the towel, trying to force some warmth into the rest of his body. It was bad enough that the paper towels underneath him did nothing to give heat, and let the chill of the wooden table flow right into the boy's back.

"And the thing is," the man continued, "If those women really wanted to kill James Bond, then sex is the best time to do it. I mean, he's got his thing out and isn't focused on the knife she could have stashed in her panties, or the gun hidden under the pillow. But that never happens!"

The boy frowned, still a little unclear about the whole "sex" thing. He'd been taught the mechanics a year or so ago, but couldn't imagine that the experience was actually enjoyable for anyone. He'd tried playing with himself once, just to get a sense of what sex might feel like, but he'd stopped soon after starting. It was like yanking on one of his fingers – how could anyone find that pleasurable?

"The truth is," the man said, once again dousing some surgical tools in ethanol, "that sex is a man's true weakness. His brain just shuts down, and he doesn't think about anything else. And it's the perfect time for him to be killed."

"Which is why we're doing this surgery, right Dad?" the boy said. A fury swept through the man's eyes and, quick as lightning, he slapped the naked boy across the face.

"I'm NOT you DAD!" the man said in a harsh voice, "I murdered him _and _your mother. Don't you forget that!"

"Sorry, Silas," the boy said sheepishly, and although his face stung from the strike, he couldn't help but feel the slightest bit warmer in his chest. He knew Silas wasn't his father – it had been made very clear to the boy ever since he was little. Every once in a while, the boy would stop and wonder why, exactly, an assassin would take in and raise a child whose parents he had killed? The boy hadn't been given an answer yet, although he knew deep inside his soul that one existed. And that was because Silas had broken one of his own rules by taking in the boy.

Rule Number Three: never leave witnesses.

The boy supposed he should hate Silas, should seek to kill him. But that wasn't how the boy felt. Silas was the only family the boy had ever known, and the boy knew he should have been killed along with his biological parents long ago. But he hadn't been – and because of that, he felt he owed his life to Silas.

The man who killed the boy's parents.

The boy still didn't know the full reason why he enjoyed calling Silas "Dad". Maybe it was because the man became furious whenever that happened. Or maybe because the boy didn't have anyone else to act as a father figure. Or maybe he just liked the way the word sounded.

_Dad._

"You know," Silas said, his voice a little softer than it previously has been, "You don't have to do this now. You could wait until you're older, until you've actually had sex with someone else. There isn't any rush."

The boy responded in flawless Portuguese, "But you said it would be better this way. That I wouldn't know what I was missing."

The man smiled proudly through the mask, responding in Portuguese, "So I did."

"And besides," the boy said, switching over to Russian, "Sooner or later, I'll have to do this, if I want to be accepted into your organization. Right?"

The man's cheeks rose higher, meaning that he was smiling wider under the mask, and he only nodded in response. The boy stared up at the ceiling, the chills once again returning to his body. It was strange, just a few hours ago, he'd been eating dinner in the chair just off to the right. And then there he was, lying on the same table in the kitchen, on top of a roll of paper towels, naked, getting ready to be castrated. The boy heard a hissing sound and a mask was placed over his mouth and nose. The air tasted funny, and it frightened him a little. But he continued taking long, deep breaths, just like he had been instructed,

"Will it hurt, Dad?" the boy said, his voice muffled by the plastic mask. Silas stared down at the boy, and brought his hand to the boy's cheek. The boy expected another slap, but instead, the man placed a warm hand on the boy's face. The touch was soft and comforting, and it warmed the boy's whole body.

"No, Hank," the man said, "I promise you won't feel a thing."

-R-O-Y-A-L-E-

Hank (Boy #15) shook the pain away from his body, along with his memory. Had it really been ten years since he had laid on his kitchen table, letting Silas put him to sleep and slice off his testicles? It seemed so long ago, like a hundred years had passed instead of simply ten.

But it had been the right move. It had allowed Hank to join Silas' organization much earlier than any other member, and it completely removed the possibility of the boy having any form of a sex drive. And at the same time, it removed a major vulnerability – the shot to the groin he had just taken drove that point home. Sure, he was still in pain, but it was no where near the amount of hurt Hank would be in, had he still had all his male organs.

He had caught up to Mike R before the boy had gone six steps. Hank wrapped his arms around the small, frail boy, lifting the hunting knife up to Mike R's chin. The boy seemed to shrink into Hank's body, as if to slowly slip away like liquid in a closed palm. But Hank held on tight, refusing to let the boy escape.

"Do you have anything to confess?"

Mike R's body twitched and shook. Hank knew the boy was crying, but sympathy could only carry Hank so far. He had seen many people cry before death – it was their own way of coming to terms with the end of their life. Some people got angry, some people got sad, and some people didn't care either way. Hank had witnessed all three. To be honest, he disliked the ones who cried the most, because they brought the most amount of guilt when the job was completed.

"Please," Mike R said, his voice just barely above a whisper, "Please, don't hurt me."

Hank closed his eyes, feeling the tears from Mike R's brown eyes drip onto his arms. Being that close, he could feel each spasm that rocked the boy's body, could hear every shuddering breath. Hank took a long, deep breath of his own, slowly in, slowly out.

_Damn,_ he thought, _I always hate it when they cry._

Slowly, Hank extended his arm out, letting the hunting knife drop to the ground. He heard Mike R's gasp of surprise, could feel the boy stiffen, getting ready to run. Hank brought his hand back, wrapping the smaller, fragile boy in a hug from behind. One arm, draped across the chest, the other just under Mike R's neck. He could feel the uneasiness sweeping over Mike R, could sense the boy eyeing the hunting knife on the ground.

The shadows danced and the whispers echoed, and slowly everything faded into the oblivion surrounding them. There was nothing to be seen, nothing to be heard, nothing to be detected beyond the small circle that enclosed the two boys. The rest of the world didn't have to exist if they didn't want it to, if only for a minute. The dead body that had once been Maya (Girl #8) was just on the periphery of what remained of the world, and her smile remained, the only witness.

Hank knew the boy's thoughts as if they were his own. Mike R was confused by Hank's actions, but with the threat of the knife gone, Hank could feel the frail boy starting to relax. The breaths were more natural, fuller and deeper, with fewer hiccups. Mike R stood, with his hands at his sides, allowing himself to calm down. Questioning, but lucid.

Mike R inhaled deeply, taking in as much air as he could.

Then he exhaled completely, letting his muscles fully relax.

And right at the end of the exhale, right when there was no air left in Mike R's body, Hank struck. His hands and arms moved faster than sound, before Mike R had a chance to get scared, to tense up again. A quick turn, followed by a loud snap that echoed through the clearing. And suddenly, the rest of the world reappeared. Hank released Mike R from the embrace, feeling the warmth leave his body as the smaller boy dropped to his knees, and then collapsed, face down.

Hank had fulfilled Mike R's last wish. There was usually no pain if the neck was broken properly. Hank had had plenty of people on which to practice that technique, and he knew he had performed it perfectly. He had not hurt Mike R – he had simply killed him.

Hank took another deep lungful of air, realizing he'd been holding his breath for the past minute or so. His brow furrowed as he stared at Mike R's corpse and then over to the dead body of Maya. It appeared Hank had found a lucky spot, since he had found and killed two contestants there.

_It's hard to seduce a man after he's been castrated,_ Hank said inside his head, directed at Maya's corpse. He turned his head towards Mike R's freshly deceased body.

_And punches to the groin aren't as effective either._

The kill had been completed, the job finished. And Hank allowed his body to loosen, allowed the recent events to tax his body, his mind. Their deaths wore on him, as was only natural, but he pushed the guilt aside. He had a job to do, and that was surviving The Program. He couldn't let the deaths of a few other kids his age distract him. Killing people was what he did for a _living_, for crying out loud!

But when he got right down to it, the guilt he felt wasn't so much from the strain of his actions – but rather that the murders had been too _easy_. It almost didn't seem fair – Hank had plenty of knowledge and exposure to murder and death, and the other contestants, well, they had little-to-no exposure whatsoever.

What he wanted was a _challenge_. He wanted to be able to stand over someone's dead body and say, "You were a worthy adversary. And I was still able to beat you." Hank didn't think there were too many of those contestants out in the playing field, but there had to be _someone _that fit that criterion.

Didn't there?

Hank exhaled, opening Mike R's duffel bag and pulling out a few waters before placing them into his own bag. He reached in again, pulling out what had been the smaller boy's designated weapon. The bear trap was closed, and hung from the end of a short chain. Hank stared at it, his eyebrows knitting. Not exactly the most useful weapon, but…

Hank placed the item into his bag with a shrug, and took one last glance at the two corpses that littered the ground. Both had died by Hank's hand, and once again, briefly, the guilt returned.

He sighed.

A rival would erase the guilt Hank felt, would justify the murders of these people, would make the whole experience feel less like a training exercise and more like a fair game. After all, who would actually congratulate someone who shot fish in a barrel? If anything, that person would be criticized for taking advantage of weaker creatures, and most likely, that person wouldn't feel satisfied with his or her fish dinner that night.

That was the perfect way the describe how Hank felt. Unsatisfied. He supposed it didn't matter as long as, at the end of the whole thing, he was still alive. The priority was to survive The Program. But Hank still couldn't stop the desire for one of the fish to stick its head out of the barrel and aim a gun back at him. He wouldn't be satisfied until then. But he supposed it was better to be unsatisfied and alive than the other way around.

He pulled the pocket watch out of his bag, and his eyebrows rose in surprise.

_Six hours are gone already?_

The boy put the watch away again. It was almost time for the first set of announcements, and Hank wanted to be ready. He quickly glanced around, and with a quick turn, disappeared into the darkness, leaving the two corpses where they had fallen.

Current Danger Zones: 28

Pending Danger Zones: none

(44) Contestants Remaining


	9. Homeroom

Miss Smith eyed the enormous screen in front of her – it could barely fit inside the small classroom in which the woman sat. The display was actually made up of sixty four smaller screens, each one designating a numbered zone in the playing field. At that moment, only one screen was tinted red – square 28, the square that held the school, and the headquarters for The Program.

The monitors resembled the maps that the contestants were given, but Miss Smith had more information at her disposal with the massive screen. The randomly chosen areas that would become danger zones in the next six hours flashed red before returning to a neutral greenish tinge. On and off. Even more informative than that, however, was the figures that were scattered all over the giant display, numbers preceded with either a "B" or a "G". All the numbers were white and blinking, except for the few that weren't flashing at all – they were a solid black.

Miss Smith sighed as she counted the black numbers. A poor start. The first six hours were always known as the bloodiest (often referred to as "First Blood" by BR fans), when the contestants took advantage of the initial paranoia of the weaker players. When the true contenders were able to strike before the rest found shelter or allies.

The blonde woman turned her head, stared at the digital clock that slowly counted down the seconds. The official clock of The Program – the same time device that all the pocket watches were synched with. In three minutes, she would have to make the first set of announcements.

"How many confirmed deaths?" Miss Smith said, as she tilted her head upwards. She didn't turn to face the numerous soldiers that occupied themselves behind her back.

"Four," a young man said in reply, "Six if you include the two that you…I mean, that were eliminated prior to the official game start."

Miss Smith spun in her chair, turning to face all the subordinates. Some young men played cards at a small table in the corner, away from the rest of the equipment. A few paced the floor, glancing at technical equipment they didn't fully understand. A small group smoked cigarettes together, chatting quietly about something or other. Others were seated in front of the computer monitors, watching the figures dance before their eyes.

"Any contestants currently fighting?" she said.

"None, ma'am," a different soldier replied as he turned away from the screen to face her, "They will all be able to hear you, loud and clear."

Miss Smith nodded, her eyes drifting off to the side, glazing over as she slipped inside her own mind. One of the soldiers playing cards rose from his seat, and cautiously approached the woman. His fiery red hair was unkempt and he nervously ran a hand through his mussed locks.

"Ma'am?" he said, waiting for her eyes to rise and meet his face. His cheeks reddened as his pulse quickened. She seemed to realize just how terrified of her he was, but she made no indication. She blinked twice, waiting for him to speak again.

"Permission to be excused for a short time?"

She scowled at him, angry that he had disturbed her with such an unnecessary question. It wasn't his fault, though. He was simply one of the men that were required to be present at the school in case something…unfortunate happened. He would remain inactive and, most likely, bored for the next three days, just like the other soldiers that weren't assigned to monitoring of The Program.

Formalities had to be followed, however, and instead of getting angry, Miss Smith dismissed him with a nod, without even speaking. The young man bowed slightly and turned away, leaving the room.

Miss Smith took another glance at the clock. Less than a minute. She took a deep breath, moving close to the microphone, her eyes once again returning to the massive screen that blinked various data at her. She glanced down at the contestant files that she kept close by at all times for quick reference. Miss Smith eyed the sheet on which she had written the numbers and names of the deceased.

The seconds ticked away, and right on cue, a bell rang throughout the playing field. The sound ripped through the empty silence of the village, echoed through the forest, and was crushed under the noise of the waves against the cliffs to the east.

"_Rise and shine, boys and girls,"_ Miss Smith said into the microphone, her voice carrying out the loudspeakers set up around the playing area. _"It's time for your first set of announcements. For those of you who don't remember, this is when I'll inform you of which contestants have died. Following the broadcast of the expired, there will be the upcoming danger zones, the first of which will become active one hour from now. So pay attention, because this information is very important."_

Miss Smith took a breath.

"_Some of you may notice that I don't appear to be in a particularly good mood. There are a few reasons for this, but the first and most important is this…"_

She paused.

"_FOUR?"_ she screeched into the microphone. The soldiers in the room cringed at her shriek, hearing her voice echoing from the speakers outside the school. Some men edged away from the woman, although no one dared to move too drastically in case she noticed. They all held their breath as they waited for Miss Smith to continue.

"_FOUR deaths?"_ she said, her voice still high and angry, _"Six people have died in the last six hours, and two of them were killed by me! That is UNACCEPTABLE!"_

There was a long exhale, although it was only from Miss Smith. The rest of the soldiers in the classroom still refused to breathe, worried that any one of them would incur the wrath of the deadly woman.

"_I'm very disappointed in all of you. What kind of season will this be if you don't take the initiative? Mark my words – step up your performance, or else."_

A few seconds passed as Miss Smith collected herself, pushing around the papers in front of her. The monitors continued to flash, the information still pouring in. The soldier sitting in front of one particular screen watched as the heart rates of a majority of the contestants rose significantly.

"_I suppose it's time to announce the dead, so here goes. The first to go, as all of you are aware, was Boy #9 – Mike D, or as I called him, The Homo."_ She smiled to herself. _"It's a fitting code name, I feel. I've given one to each of you, because numbers are so easily confused, and your names are, well, boring. They don't reveal anything about you. My nicknames are much better, and they help me keep track of all of you."_

Miss Smith paused to rifle through the contestant files, as if to make sure they were all there.

"_I've gone over your files more times than I can remember, little warriors. The nicknames help me recall you better. I understand you all better than you know each other, even better than you know yourself."_

"Then why didn't she know that there were two contestants named Mike?" one man whispered to another at the far end of the room. There was a screech as the microphone dropped to the floor, and a collective gasp as Miss Smith dashed across the room. She stood before the poor soldier before he even realized what had happened, before he knew that he had spoken just a little too loudly. Her ice blue eyes tore into his mind, into his soul.

"Did you say something?" she said, her voice soft and menacing, like the quiet hiss of a snake about to strike.

"No, ma'am," the soldier replied at once, his eyes staring straight ahead, his hands shaking at his sides. The other men tried to tear their eyes away but found themselves unable. They wondered if Miss Smith would really kill one of her own, just because of a remark. They all wanted to know, and they were thankful they weren't that unfortunate individual cornered by one of the deadliest people on the planet.

"Are you sure?" Miss Smith said, taking a tiny step closer to the man. The soldier opened his mouth to repeat himself, but discovered that he could no longer speak. He shook his head vigorously, his eyes falling to the floor. A full minute passed before Miss Smith spun around without a word, and walked back to her seat, picking up the microphone from the floor.

"_Boys and girls, I was just graciously reminded that, earlier this morning, I was unaware of two contestants with the same name. Who am I to come up with appropriate and fitting code names, you may ask? Because you belong to **me **now. Everything else that came before The Program, you have forfeited. I can do whatever I like to you now – including rename you. So, if you impress me, I may be inclined to give you a name that reflects your performance."_

She took another breath, letting her shoulders relax slightly. The men in the room appeared to become slightly calmer as well, all except the one who had spoken out of turn. His eyes remained glued to the floor, his hands clenched into fists, although they continued to shake.

"_In any event, the second death was again performed by yours truly, and The Faculty Whore was eliminated, although the rest of you knew her better as Girl #20 – Nina. The rumors about this girl were confirmed to be true – she really __was__ sleeping with members of the faculty at your high school. I feel bad for her, personally. Not because she's dead, but rather that she __actually__ had sex with some of those disgusting excuses for men that taught you math and history and the like. The things we do to keep control – am I right ladies?"_

Miss Smith glanced behind her at all the men in the room with her and flashed a smile that was probably meant to be mischievous, but instead sent chills through the spine of all the soldiers present.

"_Well, I suppose we can move on to the deaths that few of you are aware of. The first true elimination was Girl #8 – Maya. I had trouble picking a code name for her, because none of them fully caught her essence. In the end I settled with The Sociopath, because that's what she was. A wolf in sheep's clothing. A predator that would have been a major contender for victory. In fact, she was one of the contestants I placed a wager on this season."_

Miss Smith laughed out loud, but it sounded empty.

"_I've actually placed __five__ bets. One of my wagers may be lost, but there are still four of you out there! It's against the rules for me to say who I expect to win, but I don't think there's a problem mentioning my bets once the player has been killed. So come on people! Win me some money!"_

She giggled again, although she cut it short and stared back down at her paper.

"_The next name on my list is The Mouse, Girl #12 – Noelle. I hope none of you are too broken up over the loss of this girl. As you can tell by her code name, she was merely a rodent – prey for a bigger threat. No one really expected her to make it too far in this game. Following her demise, we had the first true death of a male in this season, and that was The Aroused, Boy #16 – Oliver. His name is appropriate simply because he was constantly trying to satisfy himself sexually, just like other sex addicts. At least he didn't die a virgin. Well, __I__ don't think he did."_ Miss Smith paused, turning toward the soldiers. She faced them, still speaking into the microphone,_ "What do you think, men? Would you consider our young friend a virgin?"_

The soldiers all glanced at each other, afraid to speak. They had all seen what happened when words were offered without being asked for them. But it appeared that Miss Smith truly wanted some input.

"Our cameras captured the whole event, we all saw it," one man said, speaking softly at first before raising his voice, "The boy didn't finish inside of the girl. It's the same as masturbating, then."

Miss Smith grinned, and the soldier appeared to be satisfied with his answer.

"He wasn't a virgin," a voice announced out loud. The entire room faced the soldier, his fists still shaking at his sides, but his eyes had risen off the ground, and stared at Miss Smith, unwavering. "If coming _inside_ someone else is necessary to lose your virginity, then there are married people who could still be called virgins, and men who pick up prostitutes, too."

For a moment, Miss Smith said nothing until, finally, she nodded and smirked.

"_Well said, soldier,"_ she said, spinning in her chair and once again facing the giant screen. _"That settles it for me, then. Let's move on to the last name on this list. It is Boy #19 – Mike R, or as he was appropriately named, The Piss Pants."_ She paused, tapping a finger against the table to her side, while still speaking into the microphone. _"Maybe…maybe the wrong boy died first."_

A minute passed before Miss Smith took an audible breath. It looked like she had more to say, but decided against it. She shook her head from side to side. Still tapping her finger. If there were any lingering doubts about her methods earlier in the game, it appeared she didn't feel like dealing with them.

Tap, tap.

"_Those six contestants are the only ones who have been eliminated. That means that there are still forty four of you inside the playing field. Hopefully we'll have plenty more names at noon today. In any event, here are the three zones that will become danger zones at seven am, nine am, and eleven am, respectfully."_

She waited a few seconds for the students to produce their maps and ready their highlighters.

_"The first zone is 20, located exactly north of the school danger zone. At nine, sector 21 becomes activated, and this should be apparent, but zone 21 is the area east of block 20. And wrapping it up, block 33 all the way to the west in the mountains region becomes active at eleven."_

Those three areas continued to blink red on the massive display before her. The whole mountain area to the west appeared to be almost completely vacant, except for a few contestants scattered here or there. In fact, there was only one player in zone 33, and she would probably move immediately following the announcement. Areas 20 and 21 had a few contestants each, but they wouldn't stick around too long, provided that they realized they were inside a pending danger zone.

"_That's all the information I have to offer now,"_ Miss Smith said with a sigh. She continued to tap her finger against the table, and at some point her foot had joined the rhythm.

Tap, tap.

"_Before I sign off,"_ she continued, _"I would like to…apologize for my outburst at the start of this announcement."_

The soldiers reacted in various forms of surprise, glancing nervously at each other, lowering their jaws in shock, eyes drifting off to the sides or down to the floor, shifting weight from one foot to the other.

_"It wasn't fair for me to get angry at all of you. The Program is a difficult game, and a lot can happen in a short amount of time. I know that some of you out there are trying your hardest, and to undermine your efforts is wrong. Please, forgive me."_

Miss Smith stopped tapping her finger, her foot. She took a deep breath, letting her shoulders sag.

_"I don't like wishing people luck, because it isn't something you work for – it's just something that happens to you. So, instead, I'll wish you all good skill. Your skills, your abilities will see you through this. I will return in six hours. That is all."_

The microphone was switched off, and another bell rang throughout the playing field, informing everyone that announcements had ended. Silence reigned supreme through the classroom, as the soldiers attempted to return to their activities without drawing attention to themselves.

"Ma'am?" The voice sliced through the tranquility of the moment, shattering any hope for peace. It was _him_ again. Miss Smith slowly turned and gazed at the man who apparently didn't know when to keep his mouth shut.

"Isn't it illegal for government officials directly involved with The Program to place bets on the game?"

The fury returned to Miss Smith's face and she jumped up from the chair, but before she could get a word out edgewise, the soldier continued.

"The reason I ask," he said, "is because I'm a gambling man myself."

Miss Smith stopped, let her face relax. A curiosity crept into her eyes, and she placed a hand on her hip, shifting her weight to her back leg. The powder blue blouse revealed a modest bosom, but no man was brave enough to stare at it for long.

"I was wondering if, during The Program," he said, walking towards her, "you would be interested in placing a few small wagers here or there?"

She stared at him, although her eyes weren't as hard as they had been. The hint of a smile crept along her cheeks, and she placed a hand on the back of her chair, swiveling it towards her.

"What is your name, soldier?" she said, her eyebrows rising slightly.

"Most of the guys just call me Thumper," he said. Miss Smith tilted her head, as if she wanted a better explanation. Thumper reached into her shirt and pulled out his dog tags, but with a rabbit's foot also attached to the chain.

"Don't leave home without it," he said, as he held it up for Miss Smith to see. She smirked and Thumper placed the tags and rabbit's foot back inside his shirt.

"Fine, Thumper," Miss Smith said with a nod, "What kind of bets were you thinking of placing?"

"Anything, really," he said, glancing at some of the other soldiers who appeared to be relieved by the light banter, "We could bet on the next contestant to die, or which one will survive a fight, or something as simple as the next contestant to enter a certain zone on the map."

"It sounds like there are a lot of things to bet on," Miss Smith said, glancing back up at her giant map.

"Got to keep the game interesting," Thumper said in reply, "We could use items like matches or toothpicks to represent money, so we wouldn't have to worry about bills switching hands so often." He paused, gazing around him. "And it would allow everyone to take part if they wanted."

Miss Smith glanced at the other soldiers, some of which immediately averted their eyes, while others met her stare and nodded with a smirk of their own.

"Sounds like fun," Miss Smith said, "Any suggestions for our first round of betting?"

"Something simple," Thumper said, "How about the next contestant to claim a kill? It allows for a wild card win, but there are also plenty of safe bets too. And we can have other, smaller wagers in the meantime."

Miss Smith stared up at the large screen, watching the numbers slowly move from place to place. She knew which contestants would be most likely to kill, either for their first time or not. The trouble was trying to pick the right one. Her eyes flew over the numbers, until they settled on one in particular. Miss Smith frowned, watching the figure "G13" flash inside zone 33. She had expected that girl to carry on soon after the announcements. The other students in blocks 20 and 21 were already on the move.

The woman gazed over at her contestant files, her mind bringing up the information she needed. The soldiers were already arguing about who was most likely to claim the next kill, but they seemed to quiet as Miss Smith turned, her eyes scanning the room. Her gaze fell on an empty chair by the card table, and immediately, her eyes widened.

"Boys," Miss Smith said, the entire room silencing, "All of you can hammer out the details of our betting system. Thumper, I want you to watch the screen for a few minutes."

"Ma'am?" Thumper said, a confused look crossing his face.

"I shall return shortly," the woman said, heading for the door, "It appears I am needed elsewhere, briefly."

-B-A-T-T-L-E-

Selene (Girl #21) couldn't move. She was seated beneath a random tree inside the forest region, while the sky above slowly lightened. The sun hadn't officially risen yet, but it would soon. And with the sun in the sky, all the shadows of the night would be chased away, and there would be no place to hide out in the open – for both predator and prey alike.

_20, 21, 33._

Her mind repeated the three numbers on autopilot, because she knew she couldn't allow herself to forget them. A part of her needed to check her current location, to make sure she wasn't currently inside one of the blocks that would become a danger zone. But she remained frozen.

The yellow highlighter was in one hand, and the student roster was in the other. Five names were crossed off her list, but the sixth remained uncrossed, and the highlighter was making a large blot where it met the paper. Her eyes remained focused on the name, unable to comprehend it, refusing to cross it off the list.

_20, 21, 33._

"No," Selene said out loud as she continued to stare at the name. "It's a mistake." She put the highlighter down on the ground next to her, right by her designated weapon, and then reached up, twirling some of her hair around her fingers. She took a deep breath, and then another. She still stared at his name, at his number. The voice of Miss Smith continued to echo around the trees, floating along the wind.

_"Let's move on to the last name on this list. It is Boy #19 – Mike R…"_

"A mistake."

It had to be an error. That was the only explanation. There was a malfunction or the collars were switched. There was no way that Mike R was dead! Sure, he had seemed scared back in the classroom, but Selene's boyfriend was smart, and fast! There was no way that someone had found him, had managed to kill him. The only explanation was that it was a mistake.

Selene stared at the spot on the student roster right before Mike R's name. She wouldn't cross off his name because, deep down, she knew she was right. Mike R was alive and out there somewhere in the playing field. She would prove it to herself and everyone else! She would find him and show them all that just because he was short…and frail…and…and…couldn't really fight…and tended to get lost in his own imagination…and…

_"Maybe…maybe the wrong boy died first."_

Selene bit her lip, shaking her head. She wouldn't believe it! Not ONE WORD! She knew, inside her _heart_, that…that…

A hiccup.

Selene could no longer see the name on the student roster list, as the tears blurred her vision. She tried to inhale, but it wasn't smooth, instead coming in gasps. Her cheeks burned, and she grit her teeth together until her jaw ached. She wiped the tears away, staring at his name, at the spot the highlighter made on the paper. Her vision blurred again. Selene tried to keep silent, continued to twirl her hair.

A sob escaped her lips. She gasped, using her hand to cover her mouth, and she bit into her own palm, trying to force the tears away. She closed her eyes, but all she could see was his face. He was smiling at her, and the grin broke her heart in two. Selene grabbed her shirt and pulled it up and over her head to muffle her noises. She wept, her shirt quickly becoming wet from her tears. She tried to keep her cries as quiet as possible, but the grief was already wrapped tightly inside her chest, and it seemed that nothing would loosen the grip.

_20, 21, 33._

She needed to write down those numbers before she forgot them. Selene extended a hand, reaching for the highlighter, but instead lightly touched her weapon. She stared down at it, the nail gun looking bulky and difficult to manage. Her finger lightly traced the rubber handle, the metallic shaft.

It reminded her…of _him_.

-R-O-Y-A-L-E-

What a bogus assignment! Did anyone even realize that there _was_ a Film Appreciation Club at the school? And even if the majority of students _were_ aware (which they weren't), would any of them care to read about such a boring topic?

Selene sighed. It wasn't her fault, or her editor's either. Gossip was just slow. No recent break ups or hook ups of any real interest. And that fender bender in the school parking lot that had ended with two teachers in a fistfight had been interesting last week, but no one seemed to care anymore.

That was the problem. No one cared. How could Selene do her job of eavesdropping when no one was saying anything? The hallway chatter had been dull, full of empty words and generic comments that could have been about _anything_.

That brought Selene to her current predicament. The editor going through the "slop pile" looking for something to write about. And, apparently, that included the so-called "Horror-fest" that was being sponsored by the Film Appreciation Club, and promoted by its president.

Selene walked into the room in which they had agreed to meet. It was empty, save for the desks aligned into rows, and the teacher's podium at the front. He was sitting in one of the seats in the first row, and he rose when Selene entered.

"Hi," he said.

"Hello," Selene replied, "You are…"

"Mike R-," he said, nodding his head, "I'm the president of the Film Appreciation Club."

Selene was surprised that a freshman was leading the club – usually only upperclassmen received that type of position. The boy clearly _had_ to be a freshman – he was short and thin, and it looked like he couldn't grow a single facial hair yet. He looked young, _really_ young. Perhaps he had skipped a grade and entered high school early.

Selene took a seat at one of the desks and turned it to face him, and Mike R mirrored her. She pulled a notepad from her backpack, and prepared to write down the information she needed. Selene had some questions she had prepared, and she got ready to ask them. She glanced up at him, only to see that he was eyeing her a little strangely. The girl was a little taken aback, unsure what it was, exactly, that he was looking at.

"What is it?" she said. The boy blinked, as if realizing that he had been staring, and he stumbled over his words briefly. He glanced off to the side, pretending to read the writing that had been left on the blackboard.

"You…look like this girl I just saw in a movie last night," Mike R said. He looked like he was about to say more, but then closed his mouth and stared down at his hands, folded and resting on the desk in front of him. Selene tried to shake off the uneasiness creeping over her, and she leaned back in her chair to relax slightly. Her eyes scanned the questions she had written down prior to this interview. However, when she stared at him again, only one question seemed to matter in her mind.

"What movie was it?"

Mike R swallowed, and it looked like it was difficult for him. He met her gaze before returning his eyes to his hands. Voices echoed outside the classroom, as students slowly made their way to their destinations.

"It was a horror flick," Mike R said, "I doubt you'd care about it."

The truth of the matter was that he was right – Selene _didn't_ care. But there was something about his reluctance that was drawing her in. She was curious by nature, and she wouldn't be satisfied until she had pulled more information out of the boy. It was the reporter in her.

Just the facts, please.

"What was it about?" Selene said, folding her arms across her chest.

Mike R took a breath. "Just a standard slasher movie. Kids in the woods, no one around for miles. Slowly they start to die – you know, same old suspenseful stuff."

"And I look like one of the characters?"

He took another look at her, as if to verify his first thought. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it, and nodded. She wasn't sure why, but Selene was smiling. There was something so natural about the conversation, almost like it wasn't an interview. The two of them could have been anyone, chatting about a scary movie at any location. It was a nice feeling for Selene, who always trying to listen to other people talk, trying to disappear into the crowd, and never really having a conversation of her own.

"What happened to her?" Selene said, and then after, "in the movie, I mean."

"She died," Mike R said with a shrug, "close to the end."

Selene's smile disappeared. "Oh," she said.

"Yeah," Mike R said, clearing his throat a little and glancing off to the side again, "The killer nailed her to the wall with a nail gun and then he-"

Selene's face must have twisted in disgust, because when he saw her, he stopped talking. Mike R bit his bottom lip, and nodded, releasing a sigh from deep inside. Selene still hadn't said anything, and the two of them sat there, not looking at each other for a minute or two. Finally one of them spoke.

"It's actually a pretty entertaining movie," Mike R said, "Maybe sometime you'd like to watch it?"

Selene still didn't reply, but she felt her face relax. She took a breath, remembering the ease she had felt earlier, and the comfort she had had with just sitting and talking. Selene stared at him, this youthful-looking boy, and wondered how anyone who appeared so innocent could actually enjoy something so dark and twisted.

"Maybe you'd like to come to Horror-fest?" Mike R said, "Or maybe…I don't know…watch it with just me sometime?"

Selene stared down at the questions she had prepared, and she tapped her pen against the notepad. Her lips were closed, and she took long, slow breaths through her nose. She glanced at him, and noticed that he was staring back, meeting her gaze head on.

"I don't think so," Selene replied.

-B-A-T-T-L-E-

"She was killed with a nail gun," Selene said softly aloud. She took a long, deep breath. She'd been too hard on him then. She hadn't even given the boy a chance, and she remembered how shocked she had been to discover the Mike R was a junior, just like she was at the time. In fact, Selene had learned, Mike R was _older_ than she was.

The girl smiled softly. If she had known then, if she could have seen how things would have played out, she would have taken him up on his offer. But she hadn't known. Selene couldn't have imagined the boy who was hidden just beneath the surface. How imaginative he could be, how he would get lost inside his own mind for a while, and the things he could come up with! Mike R always received average grades, but Selene would say that his ingenuity was worth much more than any letter plastered to the cover of his ten-page paper.

He was intelligent and creative and had a great sense of humor and…and…he was lost to her. Selene's memories raced through her head – the horror flicks they watched together, the warm conversations that could go _anywhere_. The way that Selene would close her eyes when Mike R held her close and she knew, she could feel, that he was seven feet tall and strong enough to protect them both. The time in between, all those occasions he had spent trying to woo her. It all felt like wasted time, moments that she could have enjoyed his company. Days, weeks, months that she could have been with him, been _happy_.

But she hadn't known.

Selene slowly reached down and gripped the nail gun. Her instructions said that it was pneumatic, which meant that it used compressed air to fire. The instructions also informed her of how to switch in new nails, and new cartridges of compressed air. The safety latch had been removed, apparently, so that the nail gun could fire like any regular firearm.

The girl held up the nail gun, pointing it at a nearby tree, before pulling the trigger. There was a hiss of air, and a whir as the mechanisms all sprang to life. There was a considerable amount of recoil, and a soft _thunk_ sound that drifted from the tree. Selene slowly rose to her feet, walking over to the bark, searching for the nail. She found it, eventually, embedded in the tree almost all the way to the head.

_She was killed with a nail gun._

Selene stared down at the weapon.

It would be relatively simple. It was just like any other gun. Just hold it up to her temple and pull the trigger, and the nail would sail right through her brain, destroying everything in its path. And then she could be with Mike R. That was what Selene wanted more than anything. Not to go home, not to live, but instead to be with Mike R.

She started crying again, although it was an unwelcome feeling. She didn't want to hurt anymore, didn't want to grieve. She just wanted the fear to leave her body, and she wanted to hear Mike R's voice again, and to see his smile.

Selene brought the nail gun up to her head. She closed her eyes, searching for Mike R's smiling face behind her eyelids. She wanted him to be the last thing she saw before…it was all over. His face returned to her, just like it had last time. But the smile was gone, and instead all she could see was a blank expression and blood splatter covering his cheeks. She remembered him as he had been, standing in the front of the classroom, a body lying at his feet.

What was the point of it all? If Mike R was just going to die in the first six hours of the game, then what was the point of that whole debacle in the classroom? He hadn't been saved – Mike R had still died! It only delayed the inevitable. That was what they _all_ were doing – only one of them would live. The rest were just postponing their deaths.

_So go ahead! End it!_

Selene squeezed her eyes tight, and she let out a pained gasp, telling her hand to close, to pull the trigger. Her hand refused to comply. She emitted another sigh, full of anguish and hurt, telling herself to end it, to stop delaying the unavoidable, that she didn't stand a chance at winning, that she was as good as dead. That _he_ was waiting for her, that there was no one else that she could trust, that she was doing herself a favor by quitting at that moment instead of waiting for some psycho to slice her up instead.

_DO IT!_

With a cry of agony, the girl dropped the gun. She brought her hands to her face, weeping into the small space created by her fingers. Her long hair cascaded around her like a mosquito net as she squatted down, curling into a small ball.

"I can't do it!" she said as a wave of failure swallowed her up. The tears continued to fall, and it seemed nothing would make them stop. Selene tried to see his face again, to picture the grin that would make everything better, but it was still the same blank expression, still the aura of fear that surrounded him.

_I don't want to die._

"Please," she said softly, trying to end the pain that circled around her, "Please, Mike."

More sobs. She tried to say it, but found herself unable.

"Please…"

…_forgive me…_

-R-O-Y-A-L-E-

Noah (Boy #18) sat inside the hut like he had for the past six hours.

In a daze.

He remembered stumbling out of the school, terrified and mourning and still a little sore from his encounter from Miss Smith. He could recall shambling his way through the village, trying desperately to find safety. He had chosen one at random, one he hoped would have been inconspicuous. Fatigued, both mentally and physically, the boy had collapsed inside the shack.

And cried.

He wept for hours, stopping every once in a while to drift into unconsciousness. But he would eventually wake, and see the shanty surrounding him, and smell the sweat resting stagnantly on his body, and feel Mike D's blood still staining his skin. And he would realize that it wasn't a dream, that it was _real_, and that Mike D was dead. It would continue from there.

The tears.

The sobs.

The curses.

And the cycle would repeat. However, announcements appeared to have broken the boy out of his circle of misery. He sat upright, legs tucked in close. Dirt was smudged on his face, and his eyes stung from the constant act of crying. But he felt decidedly better. Not good, no chance of that. But better than he had been. It was almost as if the announcements had given Noah a sense of closure. Mike D hadn't been the only death. Others had died too, including that other boy with Mike's name that had been allowed to live.

Noah felt it was almost poetic. He hadn't wished any real harm on the other boy, but it made the pain a little more manageable. The other Mike hadn't gotten away scot-free – they were both dead. It just seemed a little fairer.

"_The first to go, as all of you are aware, was Boy #9 – Mike D, or as I called him The Homo."_

Now _that_ hadn't been fair. Reducing Mike D – a person with deep, intellectual thoughts and strong personal convictions and plans to rework the whole damn country when he became President – to a simple code name was bad enough. But to rub salt in the wound, to degrade him into nothing more than homophobic slang term, that was just…

Noah wanted to get angry, wanted to kick and scream and go running into that school and just kick the _shit_ out of that horrible bitch for killing Mike D and for _dishonoring_ him like that. But the boy didn't move. He remained in his daze, staring at the far wall as the shapes blurred together. Far inside his head, a voice that belonged to Mike D whispered a small phrase.

"_I told you so."_

It created a pang of guilt inside the boy's chest. That wasn't how he wanted to remember Mike D! He wanted to remember the private study sessions they had, that would always turn into something else. He wanted to remember their secret rendezvous at places around town. He wanted to remember the way Mike D's eyes twinkled when he smiled, or the smell of that deodorant he always wore.

But still the phrase continued, and Noah couldn't help but agree. Perhaps he had been naïve, or maybe he had just hidden the truth away from himself. But Noah knew the truth, which was that he _expected_ to be accepted by his peers and by authority, regardless of his sexuality, simply because he was smart. The conceit involved in that thought, the arrogance of it all, made Noah angry at himself. And it made him feel guiltier.

Mike D had been more of a realist, apparently. He had known that prejudice against homosexuals still existed, perhaps not to the degree that it once had, but it was still out there. To be confronted with it so blatantly, it felt like a slap in the face. Back in the classroom, for the first time in his life, Noah had felt ashamed of being gay. Being different. Being…himself. He knew then that Mike D had been right all along, that going public about their relationship would have been social suicide, at least to a certain degree. The world wouldn't have collapsed, like Mike D said it would have, but Noah realized that it would have been close enough. And since _that_ was the argument that forced the boys apart, that tore them from each other's arms, that sent them on different paths, Noah could only sit and wallow in his misery. Because he had been wrong.

The break up was, therefore, _his_ fault.

_I'm sorry, Mike._

The boy waited for an answer, but all he received was the same soft phrase.

_"I told you so."_

The boy stared up at the ceiling of the shack, rocking back and forth only slightly. He took a long breath, lacing his fingers together. The room was slowly getting brighter as the sun rose higher in the sky. Soon, the last remnants of night would be gone for good. Noah took another long breath.

"Please, Mike," he said aloud, "Please, forgive me."

The door crashed open, and before Noah even knew what was going on, he was on his feet, his weapon pulled from the duffel bag and gripped tightly in his hand. A feminine figure stood in the doorway, the sunlight shining from behind her, hiding her face in shadows. In one hand was a long, silver object, obviously her weapon.

"Who are you?" Noah said, his voice cracking as he resisted the urge to throw up. The fear pounded inside his head, especially as he got a better a look at the girl's weapon. He eyed his own, a shiny silver fork, looking less and less menacing in his fist.

"My name is Tonya," the girl said, stepping inside the shack. Tonya (Girl #7) had an air of indifference surrounding her. Her expression was almost completely blank, her eyes uninterested and dull as she met Noah's stare. She brought her weapon, a katana, up and rested the dull side on her shoulder.

"You're that FLA," Tonya said, "The gay one."

"My name is Noah," the boy said, his green eyes narrowing.

"Oh," she said with a shrug. There was a moment of silence, as Noah took in the situation. He didn't have many options. Her weapon was a hundred, probably a thousand times better than his. There was a window off to the side, but there was no way he could get through it before she sliced him to shreds. His only hope was to dodge her initial strike and run for the door, hoping with all his might, that Tonya didn't have an ally waiting there as a backup.

"So," Tonya said, "Do you want to fight?"

Noah frowned, unsure what she meant. He took a step to the side, hoping to get a better angle on the door. He replied with, "What?"

"Do you want to try to kill me?" the girl said, "Yes or no?"

"No, I-" Noah started, but after his initial response, the girl shrugged and turned away.

"Okay," she said, leaving the shack and closing the door behind her.

Noah's mouth dropped open. He slowly lowered his fork, although his mind screamed that this was some sort of trap. That Tonya was expecting him to follow her outside, where she would make quick work of him. But that didn't make sense – if Tonya had wanted to kill him, she could have easily done so.

The adrenaline was slowly leaving his system, and Noah felt fatigued all over again. He let himself collapse to the floor, the fork getting knocked from his hand and clattering on the cement. He wanted to be happy, to say that he had managed to survive his first encounter with another contestant, but there was something gnawing him at the back of his thoughts.

_You're that FLA. The gay one._

That's what she had said. It all came back to _that_ in the end, apparently. Just like Mike D, Noah would be known only by his sexuality, be judged solely on that characteristic of himself. By complete strangers…and his friends. He had wondered, sometimes, what the other FLAs would say if he and Mike D told them, and only them, about the boys' relationship. He wanted to say that he expected nothing to change, and prior to The Program, he would have thought that. But Noah wasn't sure anymore. A few of the FLAs weren't too happy about Kristy (Girl #6) dating that guy Raymond (Boy #11) – they said it brought down the integrity of the whole group. Noah could only imagine what they would say about a same-sex relationship.

The boy bit his lip, feeling the tears well up inside him once again. He had lost Mike D, and in the process, had been pulled out of the closet, which had cost him his group of friends, the FLAs. He wanted to believe that they would still trust him, that he could rely on them. But Noah wouldn't delude himself anymore. Maybe if they were all back in school when things had been normal, maybe he could count on them to do the right thing. But in The Program, trust was too hard to come by. He couldn't place faith in the belief that his friends would continue to stick by him.

Not anymore.

He pulled his legs in close, letting himself roll sideways, so that his head rested on the cement floor. He closed his eyes, feeling the loneliness wearing him down, rotting inside his chest. He felt the urge to cry again, but it seemed that his eyes had finally run out of tears. The anxiety bore down on him, pushing him into the floor. Noah sighed, letting the exhaustion take control.

He closed his eyes, hoping for a comforting dream in which to escape.

-B-A-T-T-L-E-

She spotted him almost immediately – a sight for sore eyes. It was the hair that had given him away, like a raging inferno sitting atop his skull, so very much like her own. The sun was slowly rising in the distance, and the sky held colors of oranges and red as the day gained momentum. She watched him glance one way, and then the other. Waiting was torture. Hidden in the receding shadows, she wanted nothing more than to run to him, to thank him for everything. But she would have to wait for his signal.

The piece of paper was still clutched in her hand, and while she stood there, she took another look at it, quickly rereading it. No matter how many times she scanned the words, they still filled her with relief – a beacon of hope in what was otherwise a torrent of misery. A smile tore across her face, and she sighed, hugging the note close to her chest. Her free hand traced its way down her cheek, under her chin, before scratching the side of her neck.

Her _bare_ neck.

It had been tough, never mind terrifying, but she had followed the instructions to the letter.

_"Your collar has a malfunction…"_

That's how the note had started. She was confused, at first, but as she continued onwards, things became more and more clear. Her brother, Victor had come through for her – had saved her fucking life! He had taken more risks than anyone in his position would dare, but he had avoided detection. Victor had found the collar, the one that would still report as normal, even when there were no vital signs to monitor, even when it wasn't locked around a contestant's throat. He had found it, and he had made sure she was wearing it.

He'd even come up with a brilliant plan – first she would travel as far west as possible into the mountains, and drop the collar there. Then, she would return to the school, and meet up with Victor. When the soldiers realized something was wrong (which, eventually, they would), they would investigate, only to discover a collar buried in the dirt. They would assume that she had escaped her collar somehow, and travel further west, out of the playing field, looking for her. Meanwhile, she and Victor would have already escaped on the _opposite side_, hijacking one of the government-assigned boats, and leaving undetected. Sure, the two would be branded traitors, and they would never be allowed to live, should they ever be caught.

But it was all worth it, for both of them to remain _alive_.

It was almost time to leave. She had to hustle back down the mountain to reenter the school danger zone by the first set of announcements, but it was necessary that she do that, according to the letter Victor had written her. There had been a few close calls, as well. Wandering out in the playing field, she'd almost stumbled across Zeke (Boy #22) once, but she had slipped away before he noticed her, which was a good move, based on the menacing way the boy held his axe.

The confrontations that _almost_ happened – they weren't important anymore. She had managed to navigate the playing field, as planned, and she was currently standing inside a danger zone – there was no way that a contestant would be able to attack her. All she wanted was to leave. Soon, very soon, she and Victor would be running for the cliffs to the east. It was dangerous, once again, to venture back into the playing field, but Victor would have his government-issued weaponry, a SIG P228 semiautomatic handgun. He would protect the both of them, and they would be able to escape.

One whistle, short and high.

She held her breath, waiting…waiting…...waiting…...

A second whistle tore through the silence, and then she was off and running. Her sudden appearance seemed to surprise him, but when Victor saw who it was, he sighed in relief, smirking at his little sister, as she ran towards him. Her tears blinded her briefly, but she was too anxious to get to her brother to wipe them away.

"Joy!" Victor said, raising a hand in greeting. Joy (Girl #13) tried to respond, tried to say something to convey her unbridled happiness, her gratitude towards her brother. It was almost too much to handle. When she thought back to those initial feelings of fear, of complete terror – she never thought that she would feel happy again. And even as she read the note that Victor had tucked away inside her duffel bag, it was only a taste to the…joy…that she was currently experiencing. She had been to the gates of hell, and she had been given a second chance at life. Joy knew she was one of the lucky ones, that the rest of the contestants would, most likely, be eliminated once her escape became known. And she felt bad for them, she really did – Joy knew that the guilt would be difficult to endure, but…damn it, she wanted to _live_. And she knew that she didn't stand a chance otherwise. This was the only way she could possibly win The Program – with her brother's help. Did she _want_ the other students to die? No! It was just…

_Victor_ was her advantage. Some contestants were smart, and some were strong, and some had better weapons, but Joy's advantage was an older brother in the military! Why _shouldn't_ she use that? She wanted to live just as much as anyone else – and maybe, just maybe, the rest of the contestants wouldn't be killed immediately. Perhaps the game would continue, with just one girl short.

But there was plenty of time to think of the future at some other time. Joy just wanted to hug Victor, to feel completely safe and secure for just a minute or two. And then the two of them could leave, for places unknown. They could rebuild their lives, away from their parents, who would rather work twenty-four hours a day, instead of reading a bedtime story. Or going to a school play. Or staying for the entirety of their child's birthday party. Joy and Victor would be there for each other, just like they always were. Things would be different! They would be _better_.

"Treason," a voice said as the shadows shifted behind Victor, "is a very serious crime."

Joy froze in mid-step. Her lips quivered, as, suddenly, her tears took on a completely new meaning. Miss Smith was shorter than Victor, but the presence she possessed made it appear like she towered over the man. She held a revolver to the back of his head, and Victor held his hands up at his sides.

In defeat.

The girl collapsed to her knees, a dull ache quickly forming inside her chest. This wasn't how it was supposed to be! Victor's plan was flawless, brilliant even. How was it that Miss Smith put all the pieces together? It wasn't fair! Joy and Victor were supposed to escape together, to start over as a family!

"Girl Number Thirteen," Miss Smith said, and it took Joy a minute to realize she was being addressed. She tried to swallow, but it made her feel like throwing up. Her head swam, feeling the last glimpses of hope slowly slip through her fingers. Miss Smith didn't wait for the girl to respond.

"If you want this young man to stay alive," Miss Smith said, "You will come over here and put on this replacement collar I've brought. I will assure you that no harm nor discipline will come his way, but only if you accept your new collar and reenter The Program."

Joy stared at Victor through tear-filled eyes, watching as he attempted to glimpse at Miss Smith out of the corner of his eye. His hands were still raised, but Joy could see that he wanted, very much, to grab the SIG P228 at his hip. Any such movement, however slight, would most likely cause Miss Smith to pull the trigger at once. Victor wouldn't stand a chance, and even if he did, Joy couldn't justify why he should have to put his life on the line for her again. He had done all he could – probably more than that – to save Joy. As much as it bothered her, terrified her, made her feel more like a burden than a little sister, she would join The Program. Refusing, at that moment, was suicide – both of them would be executed and left to rot.

At least Victor would be able to survive if Joy accepted Miss Smith's offer.

She could see Victor staring at her, slowly shaking his head from side to side. They both knew that if Joy went back into The Program, she wouldn't make it out alive. But it was better to give herself a chance at victory than to condemn them both to death. If it came down to it, Joy would play, if only to reunite herself with her brother.

That would be difficult, however. Her designated weapon…

_Weapon…_

Joy's eyes widened, and her stare met Victor's. A message passed between them, something only the two of them could understand, that only they could comprehend. Joy could either fight all the other contestants alone, or they could both do battle with Miss Smith. One against forty-three, or two against one. Together, they had a better shot at surviving. With Joy's weapon in hand, they could stand a chance.

Together.

Slowly, Joy shifted her weight, starting to climb to her feet. She watched Victor's eyes, as he waited for the precise moment to reach for his gun. While Joy was moving, she deftly slipped her hand into her duffel bag, making it appear that she was rising to her feet against her own wishes. Her hand closed around her weapon and…

The air horn ripped through the silence. Joy held down the button, letting the noise erupt from her bag, shattering the quiet moment around them. Miss Smith visibly jumped and Victor was ready, starting to fall forward, moving his head out of the line of fire from Miss Smith's revolver. One hand reached his gun and he spun, firing a quick shot at Miss Smith. It struck her chest, and she cried out in pain as the woman toppled to the earth.

Victor yelled something, but Joy's ears were still ringing, so she couldn't make it out. The two of them took off, sprinting east, toward the cliffs, toward the boat, toward _freedom_. The two of them met, linking hands and taking another few strides, before Victor cried out and collapsed to the ground. Joy's eyes quickly focused on the bloody mess that had been Victor's knee, and she wondered where the damage had come from. Victor turned his body as far as it would go, aiming his SIG back where they had come, but before anything could happen, there was a humming noise, and suddenly part of his head burst outwards.

Joy screamed in horror as her brother collapsed at her feet. She continued to shriek, even as Miss Smith strolled over, staring down to make sure the man was dead. She stuck her finger through a hole in her powder blue suit, gritting her teeth in frustration. She gingerly felt the Kevlar vest she was wearing, just to make sure it was still on correctly. Once all that had been completed, she reached out and smacked Joy with the broad side of her revolver, knocking the girl to the ground. This stopped Joy's screams, but her eyes were still wide in terror, her breaths coming in short bursts.

Miss Smith bent over, snapping a collar over Joy's neck. The girl blinked a few times, letting her fingers rise and examine the foreign object.

"No," Joy managed to squeak out, her hands gripping the metal ring and tugging slightly, "No, no, no!"

"I will give you twenty minutes to leave this area," Miss Smith said, returning her gun to its hiding place on her body, "After that amount of time, I will activate your collar, and if you're still in this zone, it will detonate."

"No," Joy said again, her voice low and hoarse from her cries.

"You will die, if you don't leave," Miss Smith said, lifting Joy's face to meet her own. They stared into each other's eyes for a moment, as if to drive the point home, and then Miss Smith stepped back, letting the girl close in on herself. Joy wept for a solid minute before she could bring herself to look at Victor.

"Victor," she said, "I'm sorry. This is all my fault. Please, please forgive me." The girl spoke as if she were alone, as if her brother's murderer wasn't still in her presence.

Miss Smith watched in silence, before checking her watch.

"I don't know why you care so much about him," Miss Smith said, turning her back on the girl, "If I had a step-brother, I would find it hard to relate to him as if we were _true_ siblings."

"What?" Joy said, her eyes lifting off the gory mess that had once been Victor. Her mouth hung open as the girl gazed up at Miss Smith. Her face contorted into an expression of confusion, at both the woman and her words. She blinked, pulled a lock of hair in front of her blurry eyes, as if to verify that it was the same fiery red that Victor's hair was, and then brushed it out of her face. Joy stared down at the boy, her head suddenly filled with questions. The grief receded as disbelief took over.

"We weren't really a brother and sister?" Joy said.

"That's what your file says," Miss Smith said in reply, slowly beginning her trek back to headquarters.

_It's a lie. She's a fucking liar!_

But Joy couldn't stop the doubts from coming, couldn't prevent her mind from asking the questions. She stared down at Victor's face, pleading for an answer. Was it true? If so, had Victor known? Why would Miss Smith lie about something like that? Even if it _was_ true, that didn't make their relationship any less special, right?

_Right?_

-R-O-Y-A-L-E-

Miss Smith entered the room, and all of the men (except Thumper) immediately came to attention. She told them all to relax, which they did instantly. They watched her from the corner of their eyes as she walked over to the massive screen, and tapped Thumper on the shoulder.

"Anything to report, soldier?" she said, to which Thumper rose and shook his head.

"Nothing ma'am," he said, his eyes tracing down her shirt, stopping on the fresh bullet hole in her blouse. He glanced back at her face, and then down to the hole again. He opened his mouth to speak, but Miss Smith shook her head, and so Thumper sealed his lips, and returned to the other end of the room. The woman sat down, her eyes returning to the flashing "G13" inside zone 33.

It hadn't been completely fair for Miss Smith to lie to the girl. In fact, it had been downright cruel. But that wasn't why she had done it. The girl was clearly going to stay inside area 28, mourning the loss of her brother, until her collar detonated. At least with the deception, Miss Smith had forced the girl out of mourning, and into doubt. Grief would get the girl killed, but uncertainty, well, that could be the one thing to motivate Girl #13 to keep fighting for another few hours.

"Who knows, maybe she has what it takes to come out on top?" Miss Smith whispered to herself.

A pause.

If anything, Miss Smith was relieved that the whole fiasco had been avoided. If she hadn't been so thorough with those contestant files, she would never have remembered that one of the soldiers present was the brother to Girl #13. Those responsible for the preparation of The Program were obviously too lax, to let this kind of thing even be a possibility – a contestant had almost _escaped_. But despite all that, Miss Smith had recalled the information, had eliminated a traitor, and most likely returned a contestant to the battlefield, where she belonged. At then end of the day, that was simply Miss Smith's job.

And damn, if she wasn't good at it.

"Soldier, I want you to deactivate Girl #13's collar," Miss Smith said.

"Ma'am?" the man replied, his voice high and shocked.

"Instead, use this serial code as her new collar frequency," Miss Smith said, and rattled off the number. The soldier, slowly, hesitantly, did as he was told. Miss Smith watched, waited, in expectation, to see where the signal would emerge. The old figure disappeared, and almost immediately, "G13" appeared elsewhere, white and flashing inside zone 29. Miss Smith chuckled to herself, watching the figure continue to move eastward.

"Ma'am, what just happened?" Thumper said from the back of the room. The other men paused and waited for an answer.

"Nothing to concern yourselves with, gentlemen," Miss Smith said in response, before swiveling to face the soldiers. "So, has everyone chosen someone as their bet for the next confirmed kill?"

The men all began to talk at once, and Miss Smith smiled and nodded, but slowly her mind drifted elsewhere, back to the giant display. She began to absentmindedly tap her finger on a nearby table.

Tap, tap.

"I wonder_,_" the woman said quietly to herself, "I wonder if she remembered to take her brother's gun…"

Tap, tap.

Current Danger Zones: 28

Pending Danger Zones: 20, 21, 33

(44) Contestants Remaining


	10. FLAs vs the Crowd

Bridget (Girl #19) was sitting with her legs crossed, head bent low. Her eyes were quickly scanning the page in front of her, racing over the words, quickly taking them in and storing them for later. There was one large pile to her immediate left, and another, smaller pile to her right. In front of her were two additional stacks, one larger than the other, the girl surrounding herself in information. A door opened to her left, and Heather (Girl #3) sauntered out of the small room, closing the door behind her. Heather's eyes fell on the other girl, and then around the otherwise empty room. She took a half-step towards Bridget, and then paused, biting her lip. She took a gulp and continued forward.

"Where are Jacob (Boy #13) and David (Boy #3)?" Heather said, approaching Bridget until she was about a foot away.

Bridget took a long deep breath, and didn't shift her eyes away from the file she was reading.

"They found the stairway up to the clock tower," the girl said without looking up, "They're up there trying to figure out how to make a giant 'G' that can be seen during the night and day."

"A 'G'?" Heather said.

"For 'Gathering'," Bridget said, "Remember, that thing that was _your_ idea?"

"Oh, right," Heather said, not missing the blatant sarcasm. She paused, taking a breath. She glanced around the room, able to observe more since the sun had risen into the sky. The room was bare, and pretty spacious. The floor and walls were all made out of wood, and covered in a lacquer that gave everything a fancy shimmer. It also allowed the sunlight that flowed through the windows to reflect off the surfaces, illuminating the whole area.

"It still feels weird going to the bathroom into toilets that don't flush," Heather said with a slight chuckle and glancing at the door from which she had just emerged. Bridget grunted, or perhaps it was a frustrated sigh, and Heather bit her lip again. She leaned over Bridget's shoulder to glance at the contestant file.

"Girl #9 – Delilah?" Heather said, reading aloud. Bridget didn't say anything, instead slowly closing the contestant file. She stared straight ahead at the wall on the opposite side, the handcuffs still dangling from her wrists. Heather took a step to the side, feeling uncomfortable. Her shoe nudged the large pile, and Bridget gasped as she caught the papers before they toppled all over the floor.

Bridget glared up at Heather, saying through grit teeth, "Why don't you go see if the boys need some help?"

Heather backed up a few more feet, giving the other girl some space. She entwined her fingers, and glanced off to the side. The girl opened her mouth, but then closed it. Bridget made sure that the stack of papers wouldn't collapse on its own, and then returned to her current file. Her eyes returned to the words, and Heather continued to stand in that one place, her lips pursed tight. If Bridget could still feel Heather's presence, she wasn't showing it.

"Sorry," Heather said quietly, taking the stairs up to the second floor. The second floor resembled the first, but it was only a fraction of the size. It appeared that a good majority of space had been made for the gears and mechanisms of the clock. The room was empty, and Heather glanced around, confused. She wasn't sure where Jacob and David were, but she knew that, somewhere in the area, was a passage that had taken the boys up into the inner workings of the clock.

Right on cue, a portion of the wall swung open, and David emerged, blinking at the light that assaulted his eyes. His gaze fell on Heather and he grinned in recognition, nodding at her. Heather smirked back and heard the sound of footsteps approaching from the hole in the wall. Jacob appeared next, holding a hand over his eyes to shield them from the illumination.

"Hey guys," Heather said, and the boys greeted her in response.

"How's our…uh…prisoner doing?" David said with a slight grin.

"She's still reading," Heather replied, glancing down the stairwell that led to the bottom floor. She lowered her voice considerably when she said, "I don't think she likes me very much."

The boys glanced at each other, eyes still squinting from the glare. They both shrugged and gazed back at Heather.

"Makes sense to me," Jacob said. Heather's eyebrows knitted together, and she frowned, unsure what was being implied.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" David said, stepping forward, "You're a FLA, and she's from the College Crowd."

"So?" Heather said, "What does _that_ have to do with anything?"

The boys glanced at each other again, almost to verify their thoughts. David tilted his head to the side in curiosity.

"Well, you're enemies, aren't you?" David said.

"Yeah," Jacob said, nodding, "That's what I always thought."

"Enemies?" Heather said, taking a step backwards, "Are you guys _serious_?" The boys stole a glance at each other for a third time, and then both faced Heather, nodding in unison.

"It actually surprised me that you didn't insist we force her to leave," Jacob said, moving toward the stairs. David followed close behind, with an expression that looked almost apologetic. They descended the stairs, but Heather hesitated for a moment. It had caught her completely off-guard. The FLAs and the College Crowd – enemies? She supposed that when she thought about it, Heather could rationalize those thoughts, but she didn't put any belief in them herself. The two groups had almost _nothing_ to do with each other, other than the fact that they both existed in the same school.

The FLAs were extracurricular giants, taking part in almost every club or sport and charity the school offered. The College Crowd, meanwhile, only organized one event, over and over again – their infamous "Frat Nights". Word around school was that the bashes were open invite – that absolutely anyone from any grade could attend. But Heather never experienced any desire to go, and she didn't feel like she was missing out on anything either. She knew that college wouldn't be simply drunken revelry, as promoted by the College Crowd – it would be even _more_ work than high school. And she knew the other FLAs shared her viewpoint.

So the FLAs and the College Crowd differed in their views on what life at a university would be like – that surely didn't make them enemies, right? They weren't friends, of course, but instead more like strangers. Just people who weren't acquainted with each other, who had nothing in common, who didn't speak to each other, not out of disdain, but rather indifference.

Heather spun on her heels and took the stairs down, walking in on the conversation between the boys and Bridget.

"The highlighters could work, but if we're wrong, then we'll have wasted them," Jacob said.

"How thick is the clock face?" Bridget said as she gently scratched the side of her head.

"It's hard to tell," David said, "I think we could break through it with the hammer, but probably not in the shape of a 'G'."

The three of them were quiet for a few seconds, and Heather simply stood there. She wanted to help, but the four of them had limited resources. Bridget's marijuana and lighter would be of no help, and neither would David's handcuffs, even if they weren't still around Bridget's wrists. Jacob's hammer could be useful, but Heather wasn't exactly sure how, and her contestant files were too important to do anything else with them.

"Okay," Bridget said at last, and the other three looked at her. She pulled a water bottle out of her duffel bag and handed it to David. Then she grabbed the small pile to her right and passed them to Jacob.

"Wet those papers with the water," she said, "and stick them to the clock face in the shape of the letter 'G'. We'll have to use water sparingly because we'll have to re-wet the papers as they dry, otherwise they'll peel off."

"Do you think this will work?" Jacob said skeptically.

"If the papers don't make enough of a shadow against the light clock face, add more layers," Bridget said, "It's the best plan I can think of, for now. Until more people join us, we have to use what we have."

"Don't you need these?" David said, pointing to the files she had given Jacob.

"I've already read them," Bridget said, returning to her current file, "Besides, those files are the six dead contestants. Their information isn't as important as the rest." She motioned to the large stack to her left, before pointing to the remaining piles in front of her. To the larger one she said, "Contestants not expected to play." To the other, smaller pile, she said, "Contestants expected to fight for victory."

Heather felt her eyes drawn to the pile of potential threats. A part of her wanted to know who those people were, so that she could be on guard, and not taken in by crafty killer. But a different piece of her didn't want to know, as if she were judging someone too soon, based on the assumption of a government psychoanalyst who couldn't predict someone's behavior, insofar as they could predict the weather. Contestants could be _expected_ to do certain things, but that didn't mean that the actions were _destined_ to happen.

The girl decided she would glance through the piles after Bridget had finished, firstly because she didn't want to give Bridget a reason to get angry with her. But secondly, she wasn't too sure how much trust to place in those contestant files. She didn't _think_ they could be full of lies, but it was definitely a possibility. And Heather felt more comfortable making her judgments of people upon interacting with them in person, like she had with Bridget. If Heather had read Bridget's file and was forced to make a decision about whether to confide in her, Heather wasn't sure what she would do. However, after their initial meeting and after spending a few hours with the girl, Heather felt that Bridget was trustworthy, if only a little rude.

"Let's give it a shot," David said, and the two boys vanished up the stairs. Heather thought about following them, but her vision settled on Bridget once again, and the girl bit her lip.

"Do you think we're enemies?" Heather said. Bridget paused, and blinked before closing the file and staring up at Heather. The girl opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it. She placed the folder on the floor and clasped her hands together. Heather waited while she watched Bridget, unsure what the pause signified. If anything, Bridget looked confused by Heather's question, so the girl clarified.

"Your group and mine," Heather said, "The guys said they thought we are enemies. Do you think that too?"

There was another slight pause, until Bridget finally spoke.

"Enemies? No," the girl said, letting her eyes drift off to the side, "I would say more like rivals."

"Rivals?" Heather said, crossing her arms, "Of what? Our groups have nothing to do with each other."

Bridget raised an eyebrow, and a small smirk appeared on her face.

"You must be low on the totem pole," Bridget said. Heather frowned, saying that she didn't understand. "In the hierarchy of your group, you must be close to the bottom if you don't understand the relationship our groups have."

Heather wasn't sure if she was being insulted, but it certainly felt that way. Her eyes narrowed, and the girl realized she was angry with Bridget. Heather had been nothing but pleasant since Bridget had become the fourth member of their little circle, but the same could not be said in return. Bridget had been sarcastic and rude to Heather, while chatting with the guys amiably. If it was all due to some "rivalry" that Heather knew nothing about and also suspected didn't exist, then the girl felt justified in her outrage.

"There is no hierarchy," Heather said with a clenched jaw, "We're _friends_."

"I seriously doubt that," Bridget said in reply, meeting Heather's gaze head on, "Tell me, who is your leader?"

"No one," Heather said firmly, letting her arms fall to her sides.

"Are you sure?" Bridget said, "There isn't one person who organizes group meetings, delegates between disputes, discusses group activities? There isn't someone who usually takes control of the situation?"

Heather opened her mouth to retort that no such person existed, but in all honesty, there _was_ a person like that inside the FLAs. She was usually the one to gather everyone to study groups, was the first to step in when a disagreement arose and no one ever really argued with her. She usually assumed control when the leadership position was open, and had no problem distributing jobs to her underlings. If anyone could claim the title of leader of the FLAs, it was Jillian (Girl #18).

Coming to such a conclusion, Heather found herself depressed. She and Jillian…well…they just never seemed to _mesh_. There was never any arguing or anything so overt, it was all subtle, sometimes so much so that Heather wondered if it was all in her head. If Heather found out she had received a better test score than Jillian, it became that much more satisfying, and if Jillian came out on top, Heather could almost sense an aura of smugness from the other FLA. It was like there was a hidden competition between the two of them, something that only they knew about and took part in. Heather couldn't feel the same sense of loftiness when Kristy (Girl #6) or Noah (Boy #18) received a better grade than she did, and the same could be said about all the other FLAs. But there was something…aggressive about Jillian, Heather felt.

Something _savage_.

"I don't understand," Heather said, "What are we competing for?"

"For control," Bridget said, letting her face relax a little, "Both the FLAs and the College Crowd are trying to control the school."

Heather's mouth dropped for a second, but she quickly recovered, her mind working around this idea that sounded so foreign to her. How could it be possible? There was no way. At least, not without Heather being aware of such a power struggle. The whole idea sounded utterly absurd.

"I don't believe you," Heather said.

"Yes, you do," Bridget said with a soft voice, "Deep down, you do. Because you know. You and the rest of the FLAs – you have a cult following at school. Students, teachers, they all bow down to you. It's like you guys are royalty, touched by God, the Chosen People. I've never heard of any of you getting disciplined, even when you break the smallest rules – late for class, missing homework – not once has a FLA been reprimanded in any fashion."

Heather wished she had a response to Bridget's claim, but she knew it to be true. She, herself, had been pardoned for being late a class several times, and she always got extensions for papers when they weren't completed on time.

"If you FLAs get behind an idea, it gets implemented, hands down," Bridget continued, "The faculty is _honored_ to help you. I don't think you realize how much power you possess."

Heather wondered if Bridget was right. Past experiences appeared to synch up with Bridget's claim – if the FLAs became involved, shit got _done_, there just wasn't any other way to put it. It all felt so easy, so effortless – whenever Heather was drawn in, the teachers were only too happy to oblige, the principal as well.

_Have I really been blind to this the whole time?_

"The College Crowd does things differently," Bridget said, and Heather returned to the moment. She felt oblivious, like a pawn in a chess game she didn't know was taking place, didn't even know _existed_. And to suddenly realize she was on one side, to discover she was at war, Heather wanted to know about the other side too – her opponents, her rivals.

"I'm sure you've heard of our Frat Nights," Bridget said, "Everyone has. And yeah, it's a time for us to loosen up, to relax, to get a little crazy."

Heather nodded, listening very closely.

"But the information we gather at those parties," Bridget shook her head with a grin, "You won't believe what people will hand out with little to no coercion. Passwords, blackmail, anything we could possibly want to know, really."

She stopped, a frown on her face.

"Saying it like that, makes us sound like terrible people, and who knows, maybe we are." Bridget's face hardened as she gazed at Heather. "But we're no worse than you FLAs. Our methods are different, but ultimately, we're the same. Your group is trying to monopolize the school through success and glory. Our procedures are a little more underhanded, but we get the same results."

"You used Nina (Girl #20) to manipulate the faculty," Heather said, "And your parties to do the same to the student body."

Bridget paused, and then nodded slightly. Heather let herself collapse to the floor. Her eyes drifted downwards, until they became unfocused and foggy. She felt…used. As if everything she had done had instead been a part of someone else's plan. That her own accomplishments didn't even _belong_ to her anymore – that she was just handed awards and titles and recognition because she was a FLA. It made her feel worthless and pathetic, but worst of all, it made her feel _stupid_.

"You _really_ didn't know?" Bridget said with some sympathy in her voice. Heather didn't respond, she merely shook her head from side to side. "How did you get mixed up with them anyways?"

Heather raised her head slightly, and she stared at Bridget's face. A little voice told her that Bridget had revealed herself as the enemy, one who excelled in information gathering. But the warm smile on Bridget's face said that she wasn't interested in using Heather's past – Bridget was, instead, extending the metaphoric hand of friendship.

"Before the group had been branded the FLAs," Heather said, "It was just Kristy, Jillian, and my boyfriend, Evan (Boy #24). I had…a crush on Evan back then." Heather smiled, although it didn't feel completely genuine. "I was a pretty good student, so I fell into the crowd pretty smoothly. I don't think I would have tried to…if Evan hadn't been there."

Heather heard a sound, and she turned, realizing that Bridget was _giggling_. It seemed to suit her small frame and blond curls, but it utterly destroyed the image Heather had slowly developed of Bridget. Heather smirked and chuckled quietly too.

"The lengths we'll go for men, huh?" Bridget said. Heather nodded, and she felt the tension in her chest begin to ease.

"Was it the same for you, then?" Heather said. Bridget paused, and Heather could see some tension in her face, a hesitation in her breathing.

"Not quite," Bridget said, "The group had almost completely formed when I joined. And it started out as it intended – just a group of people who were looking to have a good time. I didn't care too much for school, and it was nice to find people who were like me – who wanted to enjoy their youth while they still had it."

"So who came up with the name?" Heather said, getting herself comfortable.

"Riley (Boy #6)," Bridget said, "He has an older brother who went to a university on the other side of the country. His brother told Riley that college was a ton of fun, a real blast, and that he should have started living it up while he was in high school."

"That's where the idea came from?" Heather said, almost in disbelief. Bridget nodded with a smirk.

"Riley took his brother's advice and started the party lifestyle. And he found others to join him, myself included."

"So, when did it become something else?" Heather said, "When did the group's focus change?"

Bridget's smile vanished almost instantly. She stared off to the side, and Heather could tell that there was a sense of fear rising off of Bridget's body. Heather shivered as a chill raced through her.

"Our leader joined the group last," Bridget said, her voice low, "That was when everything changed."

Heather slowed her breathing, not wanting even the slightest noise from interrupting Bridget.

"It wasn't about having fun anymore, it was about using the information we had gathered. Our boss said that we should use our strengths – that none of us stood a chance at even getting into college – but we could change that. We could get ourselves the grades to pass classes without doing work, or the money to buy ourselves anything we wanted – and we could do it through our parties! It all sounded so…"

Bridget took a breath.

"…too good to be true. Don't get me wrong, we weren't forced into anything. It had started out innocent enough, but…we're not like you, Heather."

The girl stopped, listening to Bridget very closely. The sun continued to shine through the open windows. The sounds of Jacob and David had vanished completely.

"None of us have ever felt special, or important, or anything like that. And to suddenly have people at our feet, doing anything we asked…even if it wasn't right, we all _liked_ it. We liked not getting attitude from the faculty, we liked the cash in our pockets from the drugs we sold…"

Bridget trailed off. She took a long, deep sigh.

"I guess you and I are pretty similar," Bridget said, "We were both used. You were recruited to boost the head of the FLAs to become God of our school. And I was enticed to create our own Satan."

"It's weird when you say it like that," Heather said, stretching out her limbs, "Like good and evil are waging war at our school, both battling for control. But I don't know if I could brand one side as 'good'. Since we've been talking, both groups sound pretty terrible."

Both girls laughed at that, until slowly their chuckles faded into silence.

"At least you knew what you were getting into," Heather said softly, "I thought we had come together naturally, and that we were all trying to help each other become better people. I thought we were _friends_. To think that it was all a lie, that we were _enlisted_ in order to make one of us god-like in the eyes of authority…"

"Who is it?" Bridget said, her eyes focused on Heather's, "Since the FLAs never came to our parties, the information we have on you all is virtually zero. Tell me – who is the head of the FLAs?"

Heather took a minute, listening to the question echo inside her thoughts. She still wasn't completely sure – if anything, she was just as confused as she was when the conversation had started. But if she had to choose, if there was someone inside the FLA who would do something like this, who could manipulate the rest, who could rise the group to power without letting any of the others FLAs catch on, someone with high ambition, someone with a _plan_…

_It's her…it __has__ to be her…_

"Jillian," Heather said, the name repeating in the open air of the empty room. Silence settled on the two girls for a few moments. They continued to sit, still as statues, staring at one another, but there was something deeper at play, like the mending of an open wound. There had been an abyss between the two ladies, a chasm against which they had been pushed by the ringleaders of their respective groups. It had threatened to swallow them, to claw at them until one toppled in, leaving the other as the victor. But they had resisted, and instead, they had helped each other away from the summit. The initial shock, the feelings of betrayal and vulnerability, all began to melt away.

"Your turn," Heather said after a moment, "Who is the leader of the College Crowd?" She could see the growing fear in Bridget's eyes, noticed the hesitation in the girl's breathing. Bridget fidgeted, as if to ease the pressure weighing down on her. Finally she nodded, and took a breath.

"It's…"

-B-A-T-T-L-E-

Tobias (Boy #21) shook the compass in his hand. With a sigh he returned it to one of the duffel bags he carried with him. He pulled the second duffel bag closer to his seated body and opened it, pulling out another compass. He stared at it for a minute before tossing it back into the second bag.

"_Two_ compasses," the boy said aloud, "and both are broken."

The lake water gurgled off to his side. The morning sun reflected off the placid surface, and it made Tobias squint as he gazed over the water. He wasn't sure why bad luck seemed to rear its ugly head, but for _both_ compasses to be broken, there must have been some serious bad mojo floating around him. Bad enough he was chosen for The Program, but to also be at the mercy of his sense of direction…

Well, at any rate he'd managed to find the lake, which put him in the northwest corner of the map. He was grateful for that, at least, because if he hadn't stumbled upon the basin, he probably would have continued north until he exited the playing field.

And then, BOOM.

No more Tobias.

He sighed, absentmindedly making circles in the dirt with his finger. The whole compass problem wouldn't have been an issue if Tobias hadn't been alone. But that was not the case. Back when he first left the school, the boy anticipated that the rest of the College Crowd would be outside waiting for him, perhaps with a few fresh corpses at their feet. After all, they had lost Nina – it was important for the rest of the group to stick together.

But the area had been vacant. Empty. Tobias had been the final Crowd-er to leave the school, and not a single one was waiting for him upon his entrance into The Program. Not even Bridget, who was almost always there for Tobias when he needed her. She had been released only two people ahead of Tobias, but not even she had stuck around the school. At some level, this hurt the boy, that, after all they had gone through together, none felt they owed him anything, not even to wait for him. It started out as mere indignation, at the slight the rest of his friends had forced upon him, but in the six hours since the beginning of The Program, it had developed into something else.

An ire.

A fury.

A RAGE.

The boy was _pissed_, and in his own mind, rightfully so. For all he knew, the four of them were all together, and they had left Tobias to fend on his own. He could almost see them, the four all sitting in one of the many shacks littering the village, sipping on beers that they had managed to discover somewhere in the playing field (even though Tobias knew all materials had been removed prior to the game start).

"_It's a good thing we left Tobias behind,"_ Riley said inside Tobias' mind, _"Otherwise there would be less beer for all of us."_ The other three laughed in agreement, and Tobias grit his teeth at the scenario playing inside his thoughts.

_I'll show them! They'll be sorry they didn't share their beer with me!_

Tobias reached into one of his duffel bags, searching for his weapon. With a sigh of frustration, he realized it was in his _other_ bag, and he rummaged through it, finally pulling the dagger from its contents. He smiled wickedly, staring at the sharpened blade. After he was through with them, they would all be sorry they left him behind, sorry they didn't want to share!

Tobias sighed. Sure, the dagger was a pretty sweet weapon, but the boy had been given _two_ bags, and he had hoped that they would both contain kickass items. But the duffel that was supposed to be Mike D's (Boy #9) had a plastic bag as its designated weapon.

A plastic _fucking_ bag!

What was Tobias supposed to do with that? There was no way it was actually dangerous – more of a joke than a means of causing harm. The extra food and water would come in handy at some point, so all wasn't lost. But Tobias couldn't help but be disappointed that he had two chances to receive a gun as a weapon, and neither had been a firearm.

Tobias gazed back out at the lake, and a thought crossed his mind. He tilted his head, as a smirk made its way over his face. He placed the dagger back into his duffel bag (not Mike D's) and then stood. First he removed his shoes, and then his socks. His shirt was up and over his head and then his jeans dropped to the earth. He took a few steps toward the water before stopping, glancing back at his pile of clothes, and then removing his boxer shorts, tossing them on top.

The water was warm, and so he had no trouble entering the lake's depths. He paddled out a little further, treading water up to his neck. He took a long breath and then submerged himself, feeling the weightlessness relax his senses. Something tickled his foot and a surge of fear raced through him for an instant, but the sensation disappeared quickly and Tobias surfaced, feeling refreshed. Droplets raced down from his short hair over his eyes. He wiped them away with a free hand, and then resumed treading water. The warmth of the lake water, while comforting at first, was slowly raising Tobias' body temperature. One more dunk beneath the surface and then he'd get out.

Just as he submerged himself, a sound reached his ears.

It surprised him, and he immediately kicked out to resurface and discover the source of the noise. However, something slimy wrapped itself around his ankle, and tugged him back down into the depths. Tobias' mind screamed in terror, and he furiously thrashed in the water. More tendrils ensnared his limbs, preventing the boy from reaching the air his lungs began to desperately crave. Water rushed into his mouth as a spasm racked his chest. He could see the ripples and waves his swipes were creating above him, and he wondered how he could be so close to the surface, but unable to reach it.

Energy was slowly draining from him. His limbs felt heavier, and the water seemed to weigh down on him, pushing Tobias further and further into the murky depths. His lungs twisted and wrenched inside his body, trying to find air where none existed. He could feel a loss of control, a numbness that was gradually making its way through his body. Soon his chest would loosen, and liquid would rush inside him, and that would be it.

He would die.

An image flashed inside his head. On a paved road, a squirrel had been run over. Its head was flattened and part of its body as well, but the hind legs continued to kick, and the tail was straight up in the air, twitching. Even underwater, the smell of blood entered Tobias' nose, and a coppery taste rose in the back of his throat. His eyes widened, as the squirrel raised its flat head, and hissed at Tobias.

Immediately, his strength returned. Tobias thrashed and tore the tendrils, ripping them away from his arms, his ankles, his neck. He kicked his legs, feeling the strain on his body, and suddenly, he was up. He coughed and choked, the water rushing out of his mouth. The air was warm and heavy, but it entered his lungs and they calmed, satisfied with the renewed oxygen supply. He raised an arm, watching as it rose from the water, encased in seaweed. He tried removing the long coils of vegetation, when the noise reached his ears again.

The boy glanced at the shore, to see another person standing there, waving both arms.

"Hey, Tobias!" Wyatt (Boy #10) called out with a grin, "I'm over here!"

Tobias' anger returned with a vengeance, fueled by his near-drowning experience. Hadn't Wyatt noticed Tobias' splashes and apparent distress? Had the boy waited to see if Tobias would resurface? Didn't he know Tobias was in trouble?

The boy began to paddle back to the shore, the weight of the underwater plant life slowing his process. He found the soft earth eventually, and stood, finally peeling the layers of seaweed from his body. He turned and hocked up some leftover lake water still lingering at the back of his throat. He emerged onto the shore, exhausted, but not wanting to reveal any weakness to Wyatt.

"Oh man," Wyatt said, turning his back on Tobias, "Put some clothes on, Toby."

Tobias eyed his duffel bag, and his mind pictured the dagger hidden just inside. He could easily get to it and bury the blade into Wyatt's back before the boy even knew-

"Hey, man," Wyatt said, his back still turned, "I'm glad I found you. It's fucking scary out there without the rest of the Crowd, you know?"

Tobias paused and waited, his attention focused solely on the other boy. The water dripped off his body, but he didn't remove his eyes from the duffel bag and the weapon it contained.

"I waited a little while outside the school," Wyatt said, and Tobias slowed his breathing, not wanting to miss a single word. His lungs complained inside his torso, still a little shaken from his experience a minute ago. But the boy refused them, quietly listening.

"I mean, when I left the school," Wyatt said, "I expected Yvonne (Girl #1) and Riley to be there waiting, especially after losing Nina like we did."

Wyatt took a long deep breath.

"But neither of them were there," Wyatt said, "I stuck around the school for a little while, watching people leave, and when I looked at our contestant list, I saw that you and Bridget were going to be released close to each other."

Tobias grunted in some form of agreement, and then said, "Can I borrow your shirt?"

"Sure," Wyatt said, removing the article of clothing and tossing it backwards to Tobias, still without turning around. Tobias swiped the shirt from the air, and began to dry his body as Wyatt continued.

"I figured that you and Bridget would meet up, and that I should round up the other two, so the whole group could be together. But I couldn't find either of them, and by that time, the school had gone danger zone and I didn't know where to find you and Bridget."

Wyatt released a sigh that sounded like relief.

"I'm really glad I found you, Tobias. I-"

The strike came fast. Wyatt gasped as he felt the icy chill on the back of his neck, and the feeling of moisture, of wetness ran down his back. He reached back, his hand closing over the shirt, and pulling it around to his face.

"Dude," Wyatt said, spinning around, "You used my shirt as a towel?"

The boy saw that Tobias was almost completely dressed, pulling his socks over his feet.

"It'll dry," Tobias said.

"Yours would have too!" Wyatt said, slightly annoyed, "Why did you use mine?"

"Because then I couldn't wear mine," Tobias said in reply. Wyatt opened his mouth to argue, but Tobias interrupted him.

"Wyatt, do you have any beer?"

Wyatt stopped, and frowned in confusion. "Beer?"

"Yeah," Tobias said, standing up and slipping his feet into his sneakers without tying the laces. "Did you find any beer in the playing field?"

"No way, man," Wyatt said, shaking his head, "The Feds removed all the items from the area, remember? All we got are these bags."

Tobias nodded and then said, "But if you _did_ find some beer, you would share it with me, right?"

Wyatt let an awkward grin cover his face. "Of course buddy," Wyatt said, "It's never any fun drinking alone."

Tobias smiled, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders. He walked towards Wyatt and embraced him in a tight hug.

"I'm really glad you found me too, Wyatt."

"Okay, man," Wyatt said, peeling Tobias' arms off his body, "Don't go all gay on me. I get enough of that ass smacking stuff from the other guys on the football team."

Tobias stepped back glancing over at his two duffel bags. Wyatt followed the boy's vision, and his smile widened.

"I forgot!" he said, "You got two bags! Show me what you got!" Wyatt paused for a second, and then asked, "Why are you carrying two bags? Wouldn't it be easier to carry everything in one?"

"But then I wouldn't know what stuff is mine and which is that dead FLA's," Tobias said with a tilt of his head.

"Does it matter at this point?" Wyatt said, and Tobias thought about it for a second.

"I suppose not," Tobias said, and began transferring all the items from Mike D's bag over to his own. He came across the compass and held it out for Wyatt to see.

"We'll need to use your compass," Tobias said, "Both of the ones I got are broken. See? They always point me north, even when I want to go east or west or south!"

Wyatt stared at the compass, and then back up at Tobias' face.

"You're joking, right?"

Tobias frowned, and then glanced at his compass, to see it once again pointing north. He bit his lip, but quickly plastered a grin on his face and met Wyatt's gaze.

"O-Of course I'm kidding," Tobias said. He chuckled softly and Wyatt grin too. "Still, I'm no good with these things. Why don't you navigate for the both of us?"

"Sure," Wyatt said with a nod, "I'll do what I can. But where are we headed?"

"Let's go find the rest of our friends," Tobias said, his grin looking a little more fierce than genial. "I have some questions I want answered." Wyatt tilted his head in curiosity, but said nothing and simply shrugged.

"Are we going to play?" Wyatt said. Tobias didn't respond right away, and so Wyatt continued. "The reason I ask is because my weapon is just some crappy duct tape. I don't know how much help I'll be in a fight so…" He trailed off, his gaze falling to the ground. The only sound that could be heard for a few seconds was the soft gurgling of the lake, both of the boys not speaking.

"Do you want to die?" Tobias said, and Wyatt raised his head to meet the boy's stare.

"No," Wyatt said with conviction, and he shook his head to emphasize his reply.

"Neither do I," Tobias said, "So I guess you and I should play."

Wyatt bit his lip and stared out at the lake, squinting because the light reflected into his eyes. Tobias knelt down and finished packing away the plastic bag and the rations from what would have been Mike D's duffel into his own. Wyatt still said nothing, his wet shirt still dangling in his hand, as the sun beat down on his bare chest.

Tobias said as he rose to his feet, "Simple, right?"

-R-O-Y-A-L-E-

"You're joking, right?" Heather said, her mouth hanging open, "_Him?_ But I thought he was…I mean he always acted like he was…"

"Stupid?" Bridget said, and then nodded, "I know what you mean. None of us really know what to make of him. He comes across as a complete moron, but his plans work, his ideas are flawless. And he's dangerous."

Bridget stopped for a second.

"He's like a kid, you know?" Bridget said. Heather wasn't exactly sure what Bridget meant, so she let the girl continue, "He's simplistic. There's never really any grey area – it's either black or white. It's a juvenile way of looking at things, but it simplifies everything. Need some extra money? Sell some unknowing freshmen some basil or oregano instead of actual pot. A kid at school mouthing off to the Crowd? Invite him to a party and get a picture of him doing something unsightly to a potted plant – a photo that can easily be forwarded to college admissions."

"That sounds awful," Heather said quietly.

"It is," Bridget said with a nod, "But it _works_. And it proves my point – children are incredibly cruel. They're vindictive, and most grow out of the self-centered stage at adolescence."

Bridget shook her head, "But Tobias hasn't. I think that's why he comes across as an idiot, because he acts childlike." She paused for a minute, and Heather watched as a shiver ran through Bridget's body. "I think what scares me the most is that he could be faking the whole thing. It could all be an act, and he uses it to make people underestimate him, to earn their trust. That's what he did to us, essentially. None of us knew what we were getting into by including him into the College Crowd."

"But you know now," Heather said, "Why are you still a part of the group?"

Bridget smirked knowingly, "I'm here, aren't I?"

Heather laughed, "I guess that's true. The fact that you're here with us instead of out there with them…"

The girls were quiet for a few minutes, both of them taking in the knowledge that had come to light. Heather felt that each of them had learned a lot about the other in a short time, and it was a lot to take in. She truly did not want the conversation to stop because it felt like the first honest exchange she had had in a long time. But it seemed that the two of them appeared a little confused about how to continue. They had been strangers a few minutes ago, but very quickly they had managed to form a relationship, of sorts. It was comforting, but in some ways a little scary too. Heather wanted to tread carefully.

"Out of your group, who can we trust?" Heather said, deciding to keep the conversation on topic.

"Yvonne, probably," Bridget said after a few seconds of thought, "and maybe Wyatt too, but I'm not sure about him yet. Tobias is definitely a threat, and I feel that the same could be said for Riley."

Heather nodded, and she didn't even bother to wait for Bridget to ask.

"Well my group is a little tamer, I think," Heather said, "Jillian is definitely dangerous, but the rest I would expect to be okay."

"What about nervous dispositions?" Bridget said, "This game isn't just about people who are bloodthirsty or like to fight. It also affects the minds of weaker people. They'll give into the fear and paranoia and be driven to play."

Heather felt a sickness inside her stomach, but she knew Bridget was right. She herself had felt the urge to play back before she had stumbled across David and Jacob. It would be the same for the rest of them – Heather needed to take a closer look at her friends. The safety of the Gathering rested on her unbiased analysis of the other FLAs.

"Kristy is pretty even-keeled," Heather began, "Although she did mention something about anxiety medicine to me once. We should be careful of her, just in case. I would have said that Noah couldn't hurt a fly, but I was completely unaware of his…relationship with Mike D, so I don't know anymore. Layla (Girl #24) has always seemed a little off to me, but in a harmless way. I think she just sees the world differently – I think we could trust her. And my boyfriend Evan."

Heather smiled at his name.

"We can definitely trust him."

Bridget stared off to the side, her eyes falling onto the larger of the two piles sitting before her. She started to speak, but instead sighed deeply. She returned her gaze to Heather, her hands folding and unfolding. Heather frowned, but she didn't say anything – she merely waited for what Bridget was trying to announce.

"I…" Bridget stopped, but then shook her head, speaking with more conviction, "I wasn't going to show you this…until later." The girl reached into the pile and removed a folder. She held it in her hands, her index finger gently touching the edge. "I hope you realize that I'm not doing this for some spiteful reason. I just feel that…you deserve to know the truth."

Bridget extended the file outwards and Heather stared at it. She wasn't sure exactly what was being offered to her, but a feeling inside her chest told her that, whatever it was, she didn't want to know. However, Heather's arm disagreed, extending out and taking hold of the papers. Heather sat there for a full two minutes, the folder in hand, trying to discover what was terrifying her so much.

The sun continued to shine, and despite the heat the rays were bringing, Heather suddenly felt colder. She became aware that her butt stung from being seated on the hard, lacquered floor for so long. She took a few deep breaths, and glanced up at Bridget. The girl was intently staring back, and nodded once with assurance. Heather quickly opened the file, before she had a chance to second-guess herself.

"Boy #24 – Evan," said Heather out loud. She bit her lip and glanced up at Bridget. The other girl said nothing, she simply sat and stared, waiting for Heather to continue.

"Designated weapon: slingshot," Heather orated. Her worry kicked into gear, suddenly realizing that Evan was somewhere out in the playing field, and that his only means of protection was a measly slingshot. But Heather knew how adaptive her boyfriend could be – if there was someone out there that could learn how to use a slingshot quickly, Evan was the one. At the very least, Heather predicted that Evan would become proficient enough to allow himself time to escape if he should happen upon another contestant.

Heather's eyes quickly fell further, taking in her boyfriend's analysis. She was about to turn the page, when she frowned. She blinked a couple times and then brought a finger to the page, so that she could read each word slowly. The girl jumped to her feet as her mouth hung open for a second, before she pursed her lips, going back a few lines. She mouthed the words, to make sure there were no mistakes.

"Heather," Bridget said, slowly standing, "I'm so sorry."

"It's a lie," Heather said, closing the file, "It's a goddamn lie!" She threw the papers to the ground and they struck, making a loud slapping sound against the polished floor.

"Heather-" Bridget said.

"No, this proves that the files _can't_ be trusted," Heather said, pointing an accusatory finger at the folders.

"Everything in my file was the truth," Bridget said softly.

"Then only _his_ is a lie," Heather said, "They're trying to get me to play! That's the whole idea."

Bridget extended a hand out to the girl, but Heather drew back.

"NO," Heather said with wavering voice, "I don't believe _it_ and I don't believe _you_. I won't let you convince me…he would never…"

Heather slowly brought her hands up to her face, but she refused to let any tears fall. Her face turned a bright red as she tried to keep in the deep ache that thudded inside her chest. She felt the urge to release a sob, but she swallowed it and the lump that had formed inside her throat.

"Not with her," Heather said, "Out of all of them, why did it have to be Jillian?" The tears began to flow freely, and Heather clenched her hands into fists. Her cheeks felt like they were on fire, and her anger burned fiercely inside her chest. She thought her legs would give out, but she remained standing, teetering to one side and then the other.

"I won't believe it," she said quietly, "He wouldn't betray our relationship. He _wouldn't_. And not for Jillian. Not for her."

But despite her words, Heather _did_ believe. Somewhere inside her head, small details clicked into place, things that seemed inconsequential at the time: Heather calling Evan to discover that he and Jillian had organized a quick study group – just the two of them. Or even smaller things, like furtive glances and sly smirks between Evan and _her_. Or the unspoken competition between the two girls that Heather had always sensed, but couldn't describe. Had a part of her suspected it? Perhaps. But Heather didn't give into irrational urges and doubts. She had trusted him, and he had wronged her.

_Betrayed_ her.

Heather released a screech of pain, of misery. It felt like the ground shook beneath her feet, and the scream did nothing to ease the fury, the hurt raging inside her.

"You!" a harsh voice called from the side. David hovered by the bottom of the stairs, his concerned eyes focused solely on Heather, as Jacob rushed forward, gripping Bridget by both shoulders.

"What did you do to her?" Jacob said, his voice low and angry. His fingers clamped into her flesh, and the small girl winced.

"You're hurting me," Bridget said, her eyes falling to the floor.

"What did you do to her?" Jacob repeated, his voice rising. He shook her back and forth a few times, his grip tightening.

"Nothing!" Bridget said, her eyes widening with fear, "I didn't do anything!"

"Don't lie to-" Before Jacob could finish his sentence, his face flew sideways as a loud smack echoed through the suddenly quiet room. His grasp loosened considerably, but it was the second slap that knocked the boy to the floor. Heather's hand stung, but it was nothing compared to the emotional pain that racked her body. Jacob looked up, rubbing the sore side of his red face, his expression confused.

"Don't touch her!" Heather said, her voice high and hysterical. Nobody moved as they watched Heather seethe with pure rage, her chest heaving with each labored breath.

"Boys…are so…FUCKING…STUPID!" Heather shrieked the last two words, before turning to Bridget and burying her face in the smaller girl's shoulder. Heather wept, her arms wrapped around Bridget's neck. The smaller girl tossed her head slightly to remove some blond curls from her face. She tried to raise her arms and return the embrace, but the handcuffs prevented such an action.

"It's okay," Bridget said quietly into Heather's ear, unsure if the girl could hear her through the moans and sobs. She repeated herself over and over, letting Heather cry into her shirt.

On the floor, Jacob rose to a sitting position. He continued to massage the aching part of his face, and with his tongue he checked to see if any of his teeth were loose. David slowly approached him from the side, extending an open hand downwards. Jacob reached up and grabbed it, allowing the boy to help Jacob back onto his feet.

"Are you okay?" David said, placing a hand on Jacob's shoulder.

"Yeah," Jacob replied simply. The two boys watched as the College Crowd-er continued to soothe the FLA. Jacob glanced over at David and his friend returned the stare.

"What…?" Jacob said.

David could only shrug in reply.

-B-A-T-T-L-E-

The Night Watcher (Boy #?) adjusted his weight slightly, and relieved the dull ache that was slowly making its way up his back. Sitting on top of gnarly branches wasn't exactly the lap of luxury, but he had remained completely undetected during the first six hours, and he didn't anticipate that changing as The Program wore on.

With the rising of the sun, the night vision lens had automatically switched off, rendering the Night Watcher as simply a boy with a helmet and a magnifying lens attached. Still, with the coming of the day, the boy could see much further than he could with his night vision – the sunlight illuminated the entire playing field, and from his tree-top perch, the Night Watcher remained the ultimate spectator.

At that moment, the boy could make out a few figures slinking around the village, independent of each other. Whether or not they were playing couldn't be determined, although the boy figured at some point or other, they would meet up with each other. Then, perhaps, he'd have some information on the other contestants.

He wasn't completely uninformed – he recognized some of the other students based on reputation. And somewhere inside himself, he acknowledged the longing for others he knew a little more intimately. There were those out there about whom he was concerned, and who also cared about him deeply.

Or rather, the boy he had once been.

He wasn't that person anymore. He had shed his government-issued contestant number, along with his birth name. His only means of escape was to strip himself of everything he had once been, and start anew. He was reborn, as the all-seeing eye of The Program. He felt no arrogance from his position in the limbs of the massive tree, but instead a numbing indifference. As much as he wanted to climb down, and begin the search for his loved ones, he knew that the only thing waiting for him on the ground was a painful death. At least high up, the Night Watcher could see threats coming from all over, and if the situation became futile, then he knew he had it in him to take that one small leap of faith, and end his life on his own terms.

He knew he was abandoning those closest to him by remaining up in the sky, but he couldn't see how his presence would be useful to them anyways. And the longer the Night Watcher sat on his perch, the easier it became to forget them, to forget himself, to forget that he was an active participant in The Program, and not just one of the millions watching it unfold from their living rooms.

_I'm sorry_.

The words appeared in his head before he even realized he had thought about them. And suddenly, faces flashed inside his mind's eye. The boy closed his eyes, trying to force them away, attempting to reclaim his persona as a distant observer. Slowly, they slipped back into obscurity. Except for _her_ face. _She_ lingered longer than the rest, and it took the boy a moment to realize he was crying.

His hands cramped as he gripped the branches tightly. His whole body tensed, waiting for her presence to leave him. One painful sob emerged from his chest, and he opened his eyes. Through the magnifier, he saw that two people had discovered each other inside the village. As reality bore down on him again, _her_ face drifted back into his unconsciousness.

He watched the two contestants squarely face each other. One was a female with brown hair, and she carried a katana slung over one shoulder. The other was a male, and a large one at that. He towered over the girl, and in his hand he held a peculiar curved object that the Night Watcher couldn't easily identify from such a distance. The boy had darker skin and a buzzed haircut. The two of them faced each other (maybe they were speaking?) for less than a minute, when suddenly the girl turned and walked off. The taller boy appeared confused at the brunette's actions (and the Night Watcher seemed to agree), but he also continued on his way.

The Night Watcher sighed, thankful, at the very least, for the distraction that had helped remove the guilt from his mind. If anything, it was a reaffirmation of his decision. If he had come across either the large, dark-skinned boy or the girl with the katana, the Night Watcher doubted he could have survived the encounter. He was useless on the ground, both to himself and to those he cared about, but up in the sky, he had a chance at life.

The boy shifted his weight again. Guilt threatened to rear its head once again, but the boy suppressed it. As much as he wanted to see _her_ face again, he knew that it would come at too high a cost.

After all, as far as he knew, she could already be dead.

He occupied his time watching the figures weave amongst the shacks in the village, hike around the vegetation through the forest, and in particular, the Night Watcher stared at a shadow that was slowly becoming more and more pronounced on the clock face at the town hall building.

"Huh…looks like a 'G'," the boy said to himself.

Current Danger Zones: 28

Pending Danger Zones: 20, 21, 33

(44) Contestants Remaining


	11. Discoveries

"There it is," Tabitha (Girl #16) said, pointing with an outstretched arm, "Our base of operations. Our sanctuary."

Paige (Girl #23) squinted through the light that was shining directly into her eyes. She was facing east, staring out at the ocean that stretched beyond the cliffs. The sun was low in the sky in front of her, and the rays reflecting off the waves seemed to find the perfect trajectory into her eyes. Her boyfriend, Neil (Boy #4), raised a hand to block the glare.

"The lighthouse?" he said, his voice easily heard above the crashing waves in the distance.

Tabitha responded with a simple nod, and Paige watched as Sabrina (Girl #17) glimpsed at Neil out of the corner of her eye. The large girl didn't overlook her teammate's clenched jaw, or the way her hand tightened around the ice pick. For the first time since it had happened, Paige regretted giving Sabrina Neil's weapon.

It had made sense at the time – the girl simply could not trust her boyfriend not to damage himself with the sharp point. And since Sabrina was the only one without a decent weapon, it only made sense that Paige would give the ice pick to her. Sabrina had been more than happy to trade, giving Neil the pencil, with which he would not be tempted to harm himself. But at that moment, the large girl wondered if perhaps she should have held on to the ice pick, or given it to someone a little less…aggressive.

Paige shook her doubts away. To even _think_ that Sabrina would attack Neil, simply because she didn't like him, was ridiculous. If anything, Sabrina loathed Felicia (Girl# 11) a hundred times more than she disliked Neil. If there was going to be a fight within the group, Paige knew it would be between those two girls (although it wouldn't be much of a fight, in Paige's opinion).

"I don't like it," Felicia said, nibbling at her fingernails after switching her tire iron to the hand in the cast. The digits poking out of the plaster were pink and raw, and some had a reddish tinge to the ends. Felicia had bitten them down to bare nubs, and that left only the other hand for her nervous habit.

To be honest, Paige couldn't see why Sabrina was so angry at Felicia. One only had to look at the vast difference between the person Felicia had been and the one she had become in order to know that something serious had happened to her. Whatever it was, the coaches weren't talking – nobody was, in fact. So Paige didn't feel right holding a grudge for reasons she didn't completely understand.

"How did you know it was here?" Neil asked, turning sideways to avoid the glare.

"Besides the fact it's on the map?" Sabrina said, the sarcasm dripping from her words.

"Well, _that_," Tabitha said, meeting Neil's gaze and obviously looking to diffuse Sabrina's aggression, "But with high cliffs like these against the ocean, a lighthouse is a must. Otherwise there would be a ton of shipwrecks along this coast."

The lighthouse rose from the ground like a massive…well, if Paige could pull her mind out of the gutter and compare it to something _other_ than a giant erection, it looked like a…an old Greek column, maybe. Doric or Ionic or something of that sort. It was a light pink, maybe salmon (_It's flesh-colored,_ Paige thought with a grimace), and rose a good hundred feet in the air, probably six or seven stories up on a building.

"It's scary," Felicia said softly.

Paige sighed, but resisted the urge to roll her eyes. While she wasn't harboring any harsh feelings toward Felicia, she could definitely rationalize why the other girls became so easily frustrated with her. How could a girl who had been so tough become so _needy_? Almost child-like. It was a little draining, and Paige had to commend Tabitha, who appeared to be the only person who could weather Felicia's personality for long periods of time.

"This lighthouse is in square 64," Tabitha said, producing the map and pointing to the area, "Here, on the bottom right. Since we're so close to both the east and south borders of the playing field, I don't think many other contestants will travel here. So it should remain pretty secluded. And from way up there," Tabitha paused to point again, "at the top of the tower, we should be able to see anyone approaching us. I think it's the best place for us to set up camp."

Paige had to admit that her captain's logic seemed infallible. The lighthouse would provide many useful advantages, much more than the shacks in the village, which had hard concrete floors, flimsy structural supports, small windows, and many times, only one exit. The lighthouse would provide cover, and should have ground for the girls to retreat to, if the need should arise.

"I don't know," Neil said, his loud voice making Felicia visibly jump, "Haven't we seen this scenario somewhere before?"

There was a pause, as the girls all glanced at each other.

"I mean it," Neil continued as his tongue ring softly clinked against his teeth, "Doesn't The Program usually include a lighthouse because they're _known_ for large massacres of people hiding within them?"

Again, silence settled over the group. Paige nervously bit her lip. She knew that the other girls saw Neil as an outsider, someone who was more like luggage than an actual member of the group. And a part of her was constantly on edge, waiting for the moment when Tabitha asked her to choose – either the team, or Neil. Paige didn't think that Tabitha would ever force her to make that choice, but perhaps it wouldn't be so formal. Maybe her boyfriend would decide to head off on his own, asking Paige to come with him – what would she do then? Leave her teammates, her _friends_, for him? How would the others view her if she decided to depart, taking her powerful Uzi semiautomatic Carbine with her?

The girl shook her head, turning her back on the lighthouse and the sunlight that was still trying to tear into her pupils. It was too early to think about those kinds of questions. The only things she needed to concern herself with were those issues of the present. Finding Neil had taken priority, but he had been located, and so it was no longer necessary to worry about.

Paige knew how lucky she had been. With all the other students wandering out in the playing field, and how large the whole area was, it was a miracle that she had found him. After all, what were the odds that the girl's hockey team would come across one and _only_ one other contestant in the playing field, and that person being Neil? Fate had brought them together, and the large girl was grateful. She could only imagine how she would have felt, listening to the first set of announcements, waiting to hear if his name had been read off. The whole idea gave her the chills, and so Paige pushed it all away, returning to the debate of the lighthouse.

"I don't think we have too many other options," Tabitha said, "At least, not with the added benefits this building will give us. And besides, even if what you said about lighthouses is true – that's no guarantee it will happen to us. We'll be the exception."

"Yeah, I wonder how many _other_ groups of people said the same thing about their decision to hole up in a lighthouse," Neil said as an aside, however if the boy had intended for it to be inaudible, he had been no where close.

"It's scary," Felicia said for the second time.

"It's a fucking _lighthouse_," Sabrina said, her voice loud and full of venom. She turned towards Felicia, "It's not scary," she then faced Neil, "and it's not a death trap. It's just a building! And it's where we're going to stay, because _that's_ what Tabitha says. If you don't like it, take a fucking hike!"

Paige stiffened, and not just because Sabrina had chewed her boyfriend out. It had just become the moment she was dreading. Neil could easily walk away from them – Sabrina had practically told him to leave. Paige's mind quickly tossed ideas around, trying to determine whether she would stay or go – if it came to that. Her heart beat heavily inside her chest, waiting for someone, _anyone_, to break the limbo that had settled over the group.

Sabrina moved first, walking toward the lighthouse, the ice pick firmly grasped in her hand. Tabitha sighed as she glanced at Paige, and then moved toward the building as well, her machete at the ready. Felicia scurried off next, the tire iron hanging loosely from her hand in the cast as she continued to nibble at her fingertips. Paige and Neil stood together, the boy staring off into the woods from which they had emerged. The sun reflected off his metal piercings, and a soft wind brushed by them both. Paige continued to stare at him, waiting for him to move, for him to speak.

"Are you coming or not?" Sabrina's voice wafted to them, and Paige could tell without looking that her teammate was a good distance away, almost at the lighthouse.

Paige decided that she and Neil had a good setup with the other girls, and she wasn't about to put herself in a position where she might have to choose between the two of them. Paige didn't like to sit and wait for things to play out on their own, and she didn't want to simply react to whatever was thrown her way – it just wasn't a part of her character. Paige _made_ things happen. Leaving because Sabrina had snapped at Neil was absurd – she did it to _everyone_, friend and foe alike. Neil would just have to adapt – it was a sacrifice that he should make for both his safety and Paige's.

After all, people like Sabrina were necessary in a game like The Program. A lot of difficult decisions and actions would probably take place over the next three days, and the group needed someone to…well, do what needed to be done. Tabitha obviously had the most brains, had the strategy, and Paige and Sabrina were her backup, there to carry out the plans of their captain. But unlike Paige, Sabrina almost never hesitated, giving her a speed that few could match, and while Paige was stronger, Sabrina had more _fire_, more passion. While that fury made Sabrina dangerous, it also made her a powerful ally. And definitely worth the anxiety she managed to bring out in everyone.

But if all that was true, what was Felicia bringing to the table? Didn't Paige's thoughts also imply that Felicia was nothing but dead weight?

"We're coming!" Paige said aloud, grabbing Neil's hand. He glanced at her quickly, his expression displaying surprise that she had made the decision without talking to him first. But Paige wasn't in the mood to debate, and she walked off, tugging Neil behind her. She had taken control, and she felt relieved, knowing that everything was still okay. Maybe her teammates couldn't see it yet, but Neil had plenty to offer as well. He saw things in an alternative light – the world was a much different place through his eyes. He would have a piece of sound advice at some point, and it could very well save their lives.

Although, Paige couldn't help but wonder as the lighthouse grew ever closer, that maybe the suggestion that she was hypothetically thinking of, the one that could be crucial to their survival, was the same statement that they had just cast aside.

_Is Neil right about the lighthouse?_ Paige thought to herself, _or is Tabby?_

-B-A-T-T-L-E-

His T-shirt kept drooping down over his eyes. It was frustrating, to say the least. Not as annoying as losing his hand scythe, but pretty close. After all, Riley (Boy #6) was too worried about shifting the shirt around to fix it properly. It appeared that his ear had finally stopped bleeding, and the boy didn't want to risk opening the wound again. So he endured the shirt tied around his head, constantly trying to tuck it back behind an ear or something of that kind, if only it meant that he wouldn't have to remove the article of clothing to redress the wound he had received in the first hour of the game.

He was still angry about that injury too. He replayed the scene over and over in his head, driving himself insane with alternative scenarios that emerged with him standing over that other boy's body, the sickle in one hand and a gun in the other. Riley would have been a fucking god (no, not a god – something that _actually _exists…a king!) in The Program with that kind of weaponry.

_If only I had ducked a little. Or if I hadn't wasted time toying with him._

Riley supposed that he should consider himself lucky, but being rendered weaponless was nothing to boast about. And to be bested by such a fucking little…_sheep_. What kind of warrior loses to a weakling like that?

The boy grit his teeth, and the next branch that appeared in his face, he snapped out of spite and left lying in his wake. The T-shirt drooped over his face once again, and he reached up to yank the whole thing off his head and throw it away amongst the trees, when he remembered that it was probably holding in place the scab that stopped his ear from bleeding. He took a long breath and folded the shirt back into itself, gritting his teeth as he did so. His ear itched, and Riley hoped that was a good sign. As annoying as it was, an itch was better than pain. And the boy didn't have to worry about losing too much blood any longer. No, instead, he only needed to focus on finding a weapon, and reclaiming his position as a major threat.

The forest was easy to maneuver, once the boy got the hang of the compass and map. He'd been wandering through the woods for hours, and once he finally oriented himself, Riley was relieved to see that he was nowhere near square 20, which was about to become a danger zone in a few minutes. That particular area was going to create some problems wandering through the forest.

But perhaps that was the whole idea.

Making area 20 off-limits created a dead end in the middle of the playing field. Heading north on the western side of the village or west in the northern part of the playing field, a contestant would run straight into the lake. Square 20 was the means to walk around the water, but with that area a danger zone, it would require contestants to either swim, or to venture into the mountains and cross the river that fed into the lake. Not an insurmountable obstacle, but one that would easily slow down any average contestant on the run.

_Those bastards in The Program sure know exactly what they're doing._

Riley, however, wasn't running from anyone. On the contrary, the boy had his eyes and ears open for any and all indications of a nearby contestant. The boy was ready to fucking _brawl_, and nothing short of a gun pointed as his face would deter him from attempting to claim a kill. It was the only way to get ahead in the game. True, the student with the most kills didn't necessarily win The Program. But successful battles gave contestants more experience in the art of fighting, and it (usually) rewarded the victor with an additional weapon. And Riley knew that the more weapons a student had at his disposal, the more likely that person would survive.

He supposed that being weaponless wouldn't be such a problem if the boy had allies. And being a member of the College Crowd, Riley knew there were five…actually…four (_Damn, I keep forgetting that Nina (Girl#20) is dead_) people out in the playing field that could have been his allies. But Riley had decided to cut ties with them at the start of the game, and he still wasn't regretting his decision. The boy was tired of letting Tobias (Boy #21) call the shots – if he had waited for the others, no doubt Tobias would have led them all to a cliff and then pushed each off, one at a time. Maybe the others were still satisfied with their so-called leader, but Riley had no intention of taking orders any longer. It was kill or be killed. Every man for himself.

Which left Riley, ultimately, alone.

He wasn't scared, though. No, out of everything rushing around inside the boy's body, fear was not one of the emotions. Some anxiety, maybe, and a general sense of being disgruntled. But fear? Hell, being afraid was for pussies. For people who didn't know how to do anything except react – for people like that asshole from before, who would be decomposing at that moment, if not for his handgun.

Riley seethed, and then took a long breath. He needed to get that boy out of his head – whenever he remembered that initial encounter, his blood surged and his hands tightened and his jaw clenched, and Riley would be left standing in the middle of the forest, practically shaking with rage. Revenge would come later – Riley needed to _focus_ on finding a weapon. After all, it wasn't like the boy was just going to trip over-

His foot caught an object, and the boy stumbled, extending out both arms to catch himself. The T-shirt drooped extra low, and Riley felt a flash of pain as a warmth ran down his neck. His fingers dug into the dirt, preventing himself from face-planting into the soil, and he felt grains of earth bury themselves deep under his fingernails. Riley stared at the ground, as two drops of blood embedded themselves onto the dusty soil. The boy took a long sigh of frustration, but figured that, since the bleeding had started up again, he might as well adjust the T-shirt wrapped around his head.

He stood, pulling the article of clothing completely off his head with a slight wince. The pain started up again, and Riley could feel _more_ blood beginning to drip down his neck. Feeling anxious about his injury, the boy spun the shirt, like a wet towel ready to be snapped at some unsuspecting freshman in the locker room. He tied it around his head, making sure the thickest part was covering his ear. The blood flow slowed, but it did not stop completely. Riley sighed again, realizing he would have to, once again, wait for the wound to scab over on its own.

Remembering that he had just tripped over something a minute ago, Riley glanced over his shoulder, and immediately regretted his decision. He could tell one thing right away – based on the boy's lack of clothing and the rather noticeable rigor mortis in one _particular_ organ, Riley knew that the boy at his feet had most likely died during sex.

Thinking back to the first set of announcements, two boys named "Mike" had died. One had been shot in the classroom, and the other…well, Riley had paid extra attention to what the other had looked like, for condemning Nina to death. Riley had had every intention of making that fucker suffer for choosing Nina to die, but it had been taken out of his hands – that little shit had also been killed, much to Riley's satisfaction.

Provided that the dead body wasn't someone else completely, it meant that Riley had found the only male to die in the first six hours not named "Mike". Riley felt like he should remember the name (he had marked it on his contestant sheet), but all he could come up with was the code name.

_The Aroused._

Given the corpse's blatant erection, Riley felt safe in his assumption. Hell, the irony of the dead body's nickname made Riley smile, and the grin only widened once he looked off to the side. Not one, but _two_ duffel bags, sitting underneath a nearby tree, like wrapped Christmas presents with Riley's name on the tag. The boy couldn't help the almost feminine giggle that escaped his lips as he hurried over to the duffel bags.

He opened the first, pushing around the water and food rations, until finally his hand closed over a small metal object. He held it up, watching the switchblade glint in the morning sun. Feeling the security of a sharp blade at his side once again, Riley kissed the handle of the blade before sliding it into his back pocket. He grabbed a few extra waters and placed them into his own bag, before glancing at the other unattended duffel.

Riley dragged the bag closer to him, unzipping it. He didn't need to search for the following weapon, as it took up a good majority of space within the bag. Riley needed to fully unzip the duffel bag before the designated weapon would slide out, and the boy's eyes widened with glee as he stared down at the metal shield, two letters etched in the front: BR.

Offense and defense. He couldn't have _asked_ for a better find than those two items. He glanced upwards at the sky barely visible beyond the treetops.

_If there were anyone up there to thank, I'd be pretty grateful to you._

The boy's left arm slid comfortably into the back of the shield, and in a flash, the switchblade was in his right. All the frustration, the pain, the anger seemed to flow out of his body. It was almost unreal, how _good_ the boy felt. As if his previous encounter made his current discovery that much sweeter.

The shield wasn't too heavy, so Riley decided he'd walk around the playing field with it always on his arm. If anything, it would mean he'd always be at the ready, but the blade belonged hidden away, and so it was returned to his pocket. The boy turned around to deliver a clever and sarcastic "thank you" to the corpse who had left these valuable weapons behind, when Riley froze.

Someone else suddenly emerged in the dusty clearing – a boy, with dark skin and sea green eyes. His name was Ahmed (Boy #12), and with no visible hesitation, the boy raised his revolver and fired it. Riley wasn't covering himself with the shield, but apparently its presence had been enough. Riley's left arm flung back as a metallic clang echoed through the clearing, and the boy stumbled. However, he didn't wait for the second shot, instead spinning and running off into the woods.

Riley could hear the other boy give chase, and there was the sound of another gunshot, but it sounded far away, and soon the boy decided to slow his pace. Ahmed clearly wasn't chasing him anymore, and so Riley stopped to catch his breath.

_Damn, I'm having bad luck against people with guns._

But again, Riley had to remind himself that he had been targeted by _two_ people with firearms, and both times he had survived. Sure, he still had no gun in his possession, but he was still alive. And he _did_ still have his newly found shield and switchblade. The boy glanced at the broad side of the shield and noticed the bullet still indented in the front. Without the metal barrier, the bullet would have easily caught Riley in the chest, collapsing a lung if it didn't kill him outright.

Riley brought the shield up to his face, and the boy planted a kiss onto it, just like he had with the switchblade. Things would be different. Offense and defense – no one would be able to stand against him (so long as they didn't have a gun). He took a few quick breaths, calming himself down as best he could, which wasn't easy. Adrenaline still racked his system after nearly getting shot, and the boy also waited in eager anticipation for a fight he would (at long last) have the upper hand in.

He took one more long, deep inhale. He held it for a few seconds, closing his eyes, before releasing every ounce of oxygen in his lungs. Riley felt better, and after making sure the switchblade was still in his back pocket, the boy ventured off. Whether subconscious or not, he veered away from the direction he had just come, and the boy with the revolver who was still there, somewhere.

-R-O-Y-A-L-E-

Dwayne (Boy #14) was a stud.

A stallion.

A playboy.

The funny thing was, he didn't know where it all came from. He thought himself marginally handsome – not over the top gorgeous, but he had some nice features – a small nose, light blue eyes, a firm jaw. He ran to keep himself in shape, although he didn't play any sports. And still, somehow, women flocked to him.

Dwayne felt it was wrong to look a gift horse in the mouth, but still he didn't see where the attraction came from. He wasn't especially charming, or even particularly popular. When it came right down to it, Dwayne couldn't identify what it was that girls found appealing. His primary theory was that it was pheromones. That he was releasing some odor or something of that nature that enticed women on a primal, subconscious level.

_It's just nature, baby, so why fight it?_

Meredith (Girl #15) had been a mistake. That was _more_ than obvious to Dwayne at that point. There had been other regrets in the past, but none so apparent as Meredith. The girl had a definite edge to her, and that had been something that Dwayne had liked at the beginning. Granted, it wasn't what drew him to her because, like all the girls he dated, Dwayne had hooked up with her at one of the Crowd's Frat Nights, and had learned more about her as the dating began after that night. It wasn't like Dwayne _tried_ to find someone new at those raves. If anything, the boy was always surprised to discover that the girl he woke up next to was _never_ the same girl he was dating at the time. Like someone constantly playing a prank on him.

"_Thought you had the right girl this time, huh? Well, you're wrong again!"_

It always made Dwayne feel a little bad, ending his relationships in such a manner, but it didn't feel right to either girl, trying to restart the dating process after drunkenly making out with someone else. He just rolled with the punches, left one girl and picked up another, and continued from there. It made attachment in his relationships a liability, and so the boy avoided it as best he could. Feelings were always spared, to some degree, if Dwayne was aware that everything was temporary.

But Meredith had been different from the start. First of all, they hadn't just made out at the Frat Night, it was full-out sex, and it had been on Meredith's terms. After that, the girl monopolized most of Dwayne's time. And if he was being completely honest, it was _refreshing_.

Dwayne came with his own stigma, and most of the girls he dated knew it. He kept his distance and they kept theirs, if only to spare themselves the hurt when he called the morning after a Frat Night to tell them it was over. But Meredith drew him close and refused to let go, and it made Dwayne feel like…he was more than just a plaything. That he was a real person who wanted more than a few hookups before moving on to the next girl, even if that was what his actions dictated. He liked that Meredith was independent and strong-willed, and didn't take crap from anyone. It was nice that she could handle herself, and still manage to come across as soft and vulnerable, at times.

But ever since The Program had started, Dwayne hadn't seen one ounce of tenderness. It was like she was made of stone – hard edges, an almost vacant expression. She was more of a statue than a person. And it wasn't more apparent than the way she treated her so-called best friend, Alexa (Girl #22).

The three of them had been sitting in silence for a long time. Alexa had tried to engage Meredith in conversation on many occasions, but each time it was shot down with a harsh response, or a single word answer. Dwayne had tried to help, chatting with Alexa briefly, but the glares that were shot his way from Meredith forced him to stop. And so silence reigned supreme. The forest whispered around them, and the sun shone brightly over their heads, but still Dwayne wouldn't risk saying anything. It just wasn't worth the gamble of Meredith going crazy.

Meredith's current demeanor reminded Dwayne of the way she had acted the time they had gone to the Frat Night together. Dwayne had had no intention of breaking off the relationship that night, but then again he never did, and still it managed to happen one way or another. But that night Meredith was constantly at his side, subtly insulting any girl who tried to chat with Dwayne. And when it looked like Dwayne had had too many drinks, and was on the verge of losing control and venturing off on his own, he found himself alone with her, naked, and once again, it was on her terms.

To be honest, Dwayne wasn't getting nearly as much action as everyone assumed he was. Sure, most of the time girls threw themselves at him, almost begging for the pants to come off, but the few times that Dwayne obliged, the look of surprise, of horror, of intimidation was usually enough to make him pull his pants back on. The boy was well endowed – hung like a horse – there was just no other way around it. And most of the girls he dated, well, they were usually virgins, or close enough to it. They just weren't physically prepared for someone his size, and so the whole experience, for both Dwayne and whichever girl it was, was uncomfortable. Except, apparently, for Meredith.

The girl was still sitting atop the boulder, legs crossed. Her arms had been crossed as well, but at some point, Meredith had pulled out her designated weapon, a box cutter, and was absentmindedly twirling the object in her hand. Dwayne wasn't sure whether it was to intimidate Alexa into leaving, but if that was the case, it wasn't working.

Maybe it was simply because Dwayne had dated so many girls and knew how they acted, but it was painfully obvious to him that Alexa was in love with Meredith.

It was a strange realization, at first. Like an inkling that slowly grew and grew as the evidence piled up, gnawing at his mind whenever they were all together. Dwayne wondered if he was going to have to compete for Meredith, but he slowly learned that the girl was completely unaware of Alexa's feelings. And as the relationship wore on, Dwayne found himself almost cheering Alexa on. He couldn't help but hope that she would find the courage to tell Meredith how she felt, and to win her over, not because he wanted his relationship to end, but because he wanted to see true passion vanquish a casual romance. If only to prove that it could _truly _happen.

Besides, it was always more fun to root for the underdog.

Seeing Alexa sitting there, her limbs loosely draped over her body. She resembled a broken rag doll, one that had been tossed around and beaten up and forgotten. Her eyes were barely open, just small slits on her face, from which small tears squeezed themselves out every once in a while. Dwayne couldn't even fathom the pain that circulated inside Alexa's body. Obviously the distance Meredith put between the two girls was hurting Alexa, but to add on top the girl's blatant infatuation with Meredith…

The boy had actually been _happy_ to see Alexa when she first appeared from the forest. He had figured that the timing was perfect for Alexa to announce the truth, and he was glad that he'd be around to witness what happened. But, as it turned out, Alexa didn't even have to orate her feelings in order to know where Meredith stood. Whenever Dwayne thought about it, the cruel way that Meredith was behaving toward her best friend, it made the boy angry. Yes, it had been his own decision to wait for Meredith outside the school at the very beginning of The Program, but as the minutes ticked by, as the sun continued on its course, Dwayne began to put everything in perspective.

_Why am I here?_

Was it to protect Meredith? If that was the case, the boy was already rethinking that decision. The cold stare, the callous demeanor, the harsh attitude – what, exactly, was worth protecting? Would he really be willing to risk his life for _her_? Maybe at some point in the past, when the girl was gentler, was more righteous in her manner, more _human_. But not anymore. There was nothing tying Dwayne to her any longer. And with that realization, the boy discovered he had no legitimate answer to his own question.

He paused for a moment, making sure that he had no more lingering doubts. One more look at Meredith's icy appearance and Alexa's woeful position was sufficient. He was ready.

"Well, I'm out of here," Dwayne said, standing up.

The sound of his voice shook both girls, and Alexa seemed to jump considerably once the silence was shattered.

"Where are we going?" Alexa said, her voice wavering up and down. For a moment, Dwayne felt the slightest pang of regret, for leaving Alexa alone with Meredith. But he had no connection to the girl, and even though he sympathized with her, he wasn't about to invite her along, leaving his girlfriend (ex-girlfriend, actually) behind.

"_We_ aren't going anywhere," he said, "_I'm_ leaving. Alone."

"So it finally happens," Meredith said, a smile on her face but her eyes wide with fury. She stared at Dwayne, "You say you're leaving, and after we all split up, you and Alexa meet up again to be alone, just like you've always wanted."

Dwayne let out one loud guffaw as Alexa's mouth dropped open. It was so ridiculous that it was actually _funny_. The whole reason that Meredith was being so cold, so distant, was because she thought that Dwayne and Alexa were having an affair? The utter absurdity of the whole idea…Dwayne was almost at a loss for words. He shook his head and let out another chuckle.

"Laugh all you want," Meredith said, her voice getting louder as her anger flared, "But I figured out your plan. I can see right through you!"

"Meredith, Dwayne and I…we _never_-" Alexa said.

Meredith interrupted her, "Some _friend_ you are." Alexa's eyes welled up almost immediately, and she began to shake as the sobs racked her body. Dwayne wanted to turn away and simply leave, but the pitiful state that Alexa was in…no, he wouldn't let Meredith get away with hurting Alexa due to some paranoid insecurity. It just wasn't _right_.

"You're absolutely nuts," Dwayne said, his eyes narrowing, "A completely crazy bitch."

"Don't you DARE call me that!" Meredith said, her words echoing into the woods. The girl looked about ready to explode, and Dwayne felt some satisfaction from his actions. It felt _good_ putting Meredith in her place, and it was exactly what she deserved, if only for making both Dwayne and Alexa so miserable.

"Why not, bitch?" Dwayne repeated the insult, watching Meredith's nostrils flare and her grip tighten on the box cutter. For a moment, he wondered what would happen if she tried to attack him. Could he defend himself? He thought back to his chivalrous deeds, holding the door open for a girl, paying for meals, and how it was never, _ever_ okay to strike a lady. Inside his mind, Dwayne watched himself bury a fist into Meredith's face, and felt the grin it created.

_If I have to, I can take her down._

"You think it's me and Alexa, huh?" Dwayne said leaning forward, "News flash – Alexa loves _you_."

He glanced over at Alexa, waiting to see her open her eyes wide with surprise, to see her jump to her feet. But instead, the girl remained on the ground, her eyes low. It looked like even more energy was draining from her body, and the tears continued to flow.

Slowly.

He waited to see Meredith's reaction, watching as the girl processed this new information. Meredith's eyes flicked over to where Alexa sat, and then back up to Dwayne. Her vision jumped back and forth, as her chest heaved with fury. She opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it again. Dwayne stood, staring, as the girl tried to sort out everything.

"So what?" Meredith said, finally. A rage ripped through Dwayne at that moment, to hear Meredith so casually disregard her friend's feelings like that. Alexa seemed to crumple to the ground, the sound of crying becoming distinctly louder. The boy seethed, feeling an intense anger like he had never experienced before.

"_So what?_" Dwayne said, practically hissing the words.

"If not Alexa, then someone else," Meredith said, "Like that whore you always keep on the side. What's her name, again? Oh right, Isabelle (Girl #4)."

_Isabelle._

Thinking about her always made Dwayne feel…strange. They had been friends for a long time, although he wasn't sure if that was still the case. It was his fault, mostly. Jumping from girl to girl, there wasn't much time to spend with Isabelle, and he hadn't gone out of his way to _make_ time for her, either. He had heard that people, sometimes, simply grew apart – that it was just a part of life – they moved on. But in Dwayne's mind, that wasn't the case. No, there wasn't any gradual distance – he had just become less and less available. So it wasn't truly a _strange_ feeling that Dwayne experienced, but rather a _guilty_ one. Their friendship hadn't slowly vanished on its own, dissolving into time as they occasionally did; instead, he had overlooked it, until it degraded into a casual affiliation. One where they would smile and nod in the hallways, and would even have a conversation here or there. But the intimacy they had once shared was all but gone.

They had been good friends as children. Dwayne, at the beginning, would stop by her house to play with her brothers (since she had so many), and would avoid her because girls had cooties and just wanted to play house or dolls. But Isabelle grew on him, and he would look forward to seeing her whenever he stopped by, even though he would never admit it. Eventually, though, they would play together by themselves, and Dwayne was relieved to discover that no one cared if he was friendly with a girl or not. She was his first crush too, and (at his drunken father's suggestion) she was the first girl to whom he displayed his manhood. The young Isabelle had said, "That's much bigger than any of my brothers'," and Dwayne wasn't sure how to respond, so he blushed a bright red, pulled up his pants, ran home, and didn't visit Isabelle for two weeks.

Neither of them had ever brought up that incident again, much to Dwayne's relief. And their friendship had developed from there – through elementary and middle school, and even a part of high school, until Dwayne became a regular at the Frat Nights, which was when his whole lifestyle changed overnight. And while he didn't delude himself into thinking his crush on Isabelle was still hiding away deep inside him, the thoughts and memories and events that he had so casually tossed aside for girls like _Meredith,_ the friendship that he had placed on the back burner – it all started to catch up to him. The whole thing depressed him, and not just because he realized that he had been wasting his time with all the nonchalant relationships. But also because (as much as he hated to admit it) he saw some similarity between the ways he had treated Isabelle and Meredith was treating Alexa.

It was too much for Dwayne. He sighed, feeling ashamed of his actions, and for taking so long to recognize it. But as he stared at the ground, listening to Alexa slowly quieting her cries, a soft smile covered his face. He buried his hands into his pockets, and closed his eyes for a moment. He took two more long breaths, and then raised his head to stare at Meredith squarely in the face.

"Isabelle," Dwayne said quietly, letting a grin curl his lips, "Yeah, I like the sound of that."

Meredith's eyes opened wide with fury, and her lips curled back in a snarl. Her whole body stiffened as Dwayne raised a hand, and then waved it back and forth.

"Thanks for the idea, honey," Dwayne said, turning his back. He wasn't grateful that Isabelle had also been chosen for The Program. If anything, it made him nervous. But the idea that she was around there in the playing field, _somewhere_, made Dwayne feel ten times better. He had the opportunity to find to her, to apologize, to rekindle the friendship that had suffered due to his philandering ways.

He glanced over his shoulder, just to make sure that Meredith wasn't about to leap off the rock and try to slice him with the box cutter she was still holding. Dwayne saw her, just as the axe struck the back of her head.

-B-A-T-T-L-E-

Zeke (Boy #22) had tried to be quick about it. The girl was holding the box cutter – she was the primary threat, right? But even so, after burying the axe down into her skull, Zeke had expected to follow through, swinging his weapon as he went, and probably sinking it into the boy's chest before anyone knew what had happened. The small, fragile looking girl would be last, and that would be it – Zeke would have claimed three kills on his own.

He didn't anticipate the axe getting stuck in Meredith's scalp. He had tried to continue forward to, at the very least, slice off one of Dwayne's arms, but the axe remained cemented to the girl's skull. And before Zeke could even blink, Dwayne was gone, the sounds of footfalls already disappearing into the forest.

"Damn," Zeke said, before he glimpsed at Alexa off to the side. Her eyes were wide, and the paleness in her face made her seem almost translucent. Her legs twitched, like she was trying to move them, but her arms remained tightly wrapped around her body, as the tears fell from her reddened eyes. Zeke placed a foot on Meredith's face and pulled the axe upward, finally extracting it from her skull.

"Meredith," Alexa said, barely above a whisper, although her voice cracked when she tried to speak again. Her gaze appeared to be locked on the corpse's eyes, which were already flat and clouding over. Zeke glanced down at the dead girl, and then over to Alexa. He recognized both from his classes, but couldn't place either of their names. However, Alexa's whisper had been enough to tell him that he had just eliminated Girl #15 – Meredith.

_Still, two is better than one._

He wasted no more time, raising his axe high, and swinging it down.

It took longer with Alexa, mostly because she wouldn't give Zeke an open shot to her head, raising her arms in defense. Still, after three or four hacks, he managed to find a clear area, and with two more quick swings, the girl stopped breathing. The boy wiped some sweat from his brow as he bent over and picked up Meredith's box cutter. He slipped the blade into his pocket, before reaching down and grabbing hold of Meredith's shirt. He pulled it off her body and used it to wipe the blood and brain matter off his weapon, which he then rested over his shoulder. Zeke tossed the shirt onto the ground when he was finished.

He pulled out his contestant list and the highlighter, crossing off Meredith's name. He scanned the list of girls, hoping that another name would pop out at him that would match the face of the girl, well, before he had cleaved it in two. And even though he knew he could rule out Alexa as a College Crowd-er or a FLA, he had no such luck identifying her.

He placed the items back into his duffel bag and quickly rummaged through Alexa's, taking some water and food rations, since it appeared she had been given extra.

_Two kills, more supplies, and a box cutter._

All in all, not too shabby.

-R-O-Y-A-L-E-

Dwayne sprinted through the forest, branches tearing at his clothes, his face, his eyes. His breathing was heavy as he stampeded through the shrubbery, not exactly sure where he was heading. He tried to picture the map inside his mind, but the only image that flashed there was the blank stare on Meredith's face and the blood that dripped down her body from the gash in her skull.

_I left Alexa behind._

The thought twisted inside Dwayne's mind, wriggling around, stretching thin until it encased his whole brain. Yes, he'd left Alexa behind, but that had been part of the plan since his decision to leave. Was the situation any different if Zeke had attacked five minutes after Dwayne had departed? Dwayne wanted to answer "no", that there _was_ no difference, but he could not. He knew the distinction. He _had_ been there, he _could have_ fought back. Ultimately, Meredith (and probably Alexa) would have died regardless of whether Dwayne was there or not. But there had been a _chance_, however slim, that Dwayne could have saved one of them.

The boy stopped running, gasping for air. He bent over, heaving, staring at the ground below him. The forest whispered around him, but he kept his head low, trying to give his lungs time to refill. The sun beat down upon his back, and the warmth felt nice, given the chills that were still racing through his body.

They were both dead, there was almost no question about it. Dwayne had seen Meredith murdered – she was long gone. And while he wasn't sure about Alexa, something about the condition in which he'd left her, the utter despair and lethargy that seemed to envelop her, he doubted that the girl had been able to get up and run away. Even after everything that Meredith had said and done, something whispered to Dwayne that Alexa had stayed there and died, as near to her best friend as she could be.

Dwayne thought about Isabelle, and if the two of them would die the same way. But he was getting ahead of himself. There was no guarantee that Isabelle would want anything to do with him – he would definitely need to apologize. And even before that, he'd need to _find_ her, which didn't seem like an easy task.

His chest swelled as the boy continued to gulp air, his head down. The fear was slowly leaving his body – his hands didn't appear to be shaking any longer. The wobble in his knees was dissipating as well, and his heart rate was gradually dropping. He'd escaped. Dwayne had witnessed his first murder ever, and he had managed to survive. It was only going to get more difficult from there. Things had not been easy up to that point, but they were going to get a hell of a lot harder.

_I can do it. I have to._

He wiped some sweat from his face, and finally raised his head, watching as the girl lunged at him.

Lucy (Girl #?) swung hard with both hands, burying the metal bat into Dwayne's face. There was a soft, crunching sound, like a muffled potato chip. The boy stumbled back, blood oozing from his flattened, broken nose. A front tooth hung loosely in his mouth, but the second strike to his temple knocked it from his gums.

He fell to the ground, glancing upwards and raising an arm in defense. But Lucy had already moved behind him and struck at the back of his head. Bright colors flashed in his eyes, and the world swam as shapes and objects and colors all blended together. He brought both arms up to protect his head, his face, but a searing pain raced up his limb, and he saw his elbow bent in the wrong direction. The boy tried to stand, but a swipe at his knee caused him to fall flat on his face.

Dwayne rolled onto his back, staring up at the sky through the trees, feeling the sun on his face. He heard the sound of birds chirping in the distance, and could sense the pulsing ache that tore at difference parts of his body. She appeared at the periphery of his vision, and he opened his mouth to speak, to say something, _anything_, but she swung down at his face one last time and everything went dark.

-B-A-T-T-L-E-

Lucy bent down, placing two fingers on Dwayne's throat. She could feel the slightest hint of a pulse, but the boy wouldn't last much longer. There was most likely some internal hemorrhaging inside his head, and that would finish him off. Even though they looked much worse, the strikes to his face and elbow and knee were all minor. It was the head that was the target area for blunt force trauma, and the boy had received enough damage that he would not recover without medical assistance.

The girl stood, pulling the duffel bag off the body. She glanced through it, seeing Dwayne's designated weapon (some laundry detergent) inside and Lucy took some supplies she felt she would need. She stood, staring at the baseball bat and the tarnishes of blood that stained the metallic surface. She considered wiping it off, but for some reason she couldn't exactly describe, Lucy decided against it.

She took one last look at Dwayne's body before venturing off in the direction he had come.

From the moment she saw him racing through the forest, making quite a bit of noise to draw her attention, she knew he was running _from_ someone. Dwayne had been an easy kill, but the same was not necessarily true for the person he'd been running from. And while Lucy still felt herself at a disadvantage in terms of weaponry, she had no intention of backing down from a challenge. Whomever Dwayne had been running from was probably dangerous, and that meant that they most likely had a powerful weapon. That idea alone was enough to make Lucy investigate. She could always sneak away if the situation appeared too risky.

The girl took a long breath, letting the adrenaline leave her body. The fight had been easy, and definitely in her favor, but a baseball bat wasn't the best weapon to fight with. It was better than some others present in the playing field (like laundry detergent), but a blade or a gun would have made things much easier.

Lucy shrugged to herself. She supposed it was only a matter of time before she got her hands onto one of those items.

Only a matter of time.

Current Danger Zones: 20, 28

Pending Danger Zones: 21, 33

(41) Contestants Remaining


	12. Lost and Found

"Forget it, man," one of the boys said, "There's no way he's got the balls to go talk to her."

"Shut up," Phil (Boy #23) said in reply, "I can do it. It would just be easier if I had a wingman, you know, to chat with one of her friends."

"No way," another replied, "Open your eyes! Even in the dark, you can tell they're all dog ugly, like they got some kind of disease."

The music was loud, but not deafening. It pulsated, creating a rhythm that nearly everyone was swaying to. The only disruption to the music was the occasional explosion of noise from further down one of the alleys, followed by a whoop of excitement. Phil was no good at bowling – he still wasn't sure why he continued to let his friends talk him into showing up at the alley. None of them bowled either. But one of his friends had an older brother who would sell them beer at the concession stand without any questions, so Phil and his comrades would show up most weekends, just for a little buzz.

The lights were dimmed in the whole bowling alley, and disco balls vomited colors in every direction, making Phil's face appear red, then green, then blue. The lighting made it very difficult to perceive people's features, mostly because part of the face was always hidden in shadow, and the other half was tinted in a random color from the rainbow.

But Phil could tell she was pretty. _Really_ pretty. She looked delicate, fragile even, but the way she easily handled the heavy bowling balls, practically shot-putting them down the greased alley, it was obvious that she had some spunk. It was true, however, what Phil's friend said about her companions. They paled in comparison to her – dark circles under their eyes, limp hair, extremely petite. Phil wondered why so many girls would choose to hang out with someone who was so far prettier than they were.

He guessed that he would just never understand females.

"Quit talking like you got a pair," one of his friends said, "You won't go talk to her, so that's that. Let's talk about something else. Anyone see the game last night?"

Phil grabbed his beer and began to chug it, tipping the glass back and then placing it on their table. He burped once, quietly, and it was drowned out by the pulsing music. He stood, swayed for a moment, but righted himself, taking a deep breath.

"Fuck you," Phil said and began to strut towards the girl.

"It's all about _confidence_!" a friend called after him, and he could hear them chuckling before the sounds enveloped them. He could see her more clearly as he approached, and he was relieved that the lights hadn't been playing tricks – she was just as beautiful up close. She was cheering on a friend, who walked up to the foul line, swung the ball between her legs with both hands and then released it forward. Phil watched the green bowling ball roll, spin, gain momentum. He felt like he should use that time to think of something to say, but his head spun slightly, as if it was the bowling ball, rolling towards the pins. The ball struck, and six pins fell, and they all cheered, except for Phil, who was still awkwardly standing a few away. He wanted to glance back at his friends, but he knew they were all watching, grinning, waiting for him to return to the table.

_It's all about confidence._

"Hi," Phil said, but none of the girls seemed to hear him. His face flushed (or maybe it was just a red light shining on him), but he cleared his throat, watching as the girl stood to take her turn. She bent over to grab her bowling ball, and Phil stepped in closer.

"HI," he said louder, but it must have been too loud, because she jumped, suddenly turning to face him, her eyes wide.

"Sorry," he said quickly before clearing his throat again. "Hi, I'm Phil."

The girl stared at him for a second before glancing back at her friends. Phil could hear some giggles off to the side, and he balled his hands into fists and buried them into his pockets. She returned her stare to him, some expectation in her face. Phil was waiting for her to say something, to introduce herself, but she continued to stand there, the bowling ball hanging from her arm. He supposed that she was expecting him to say something else, but the boy had no idea how to proceed. The girls continued to giggle, and Phil could hear his friends cracking up above the noisy music (which only appeared to be getting louder) and she carried on watching him, waiting.

"I could buy you a beer, if you like," Phil said, and watched as she rolled her eyes, turning away from him and towards the alley.

"Or a soda," Phil said, realizing it wasn't smart to assume that she would _want_ some alcohol.

"You're not very good at this," she said, facing him once again. Phil let his eyes wander to the ground, looking at the ugly bowling shoes she was forced to wear. One was untied, and he wondered if he should mention it to her. He opened his mouth to speak, to say something clever or suave or simply something that wasn't _totally_ idiotic.

"Want a tip?" she said, and Phil raised his head, looking at her in the face. He wasn't sure if she was mocking him or if she was legitimately offering to help. But he was already utterly embarrassed, so he decided to play along. It couldn't make him feel any worse.

"You should start with a compliment," she said, "Girls like compliments, right ladies?"

Her friends chimed in with high voices that they agreed, followed by more giggling. Phil still refused to look at them, hoping that everything would disappear, the sounds, the lights, the people, so that he could just _talk_ to her. To help her see that he wasn't a complete loser.

"Like, you could compliment me on my hair," she said. Phil nodded, and he stood there, as she tapped her foot and nodded her head slightly to the beat of the music. It took a few moments before he realized that she was _telling_ him what to do.

"You have pretty hair," he said, after stumbling over his words. There was the sound of pins crashing nearby, followed by a cheer.

"Are you just saying that because I told you to?"

"No, I mean it," Phil said

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"_Really_ sure?"

"Yes! You have pretty hair!"

"Thanks," she said, reaching up to the top of her scalp. She lifted up, and her hair came off, revealing a bald head underneath. Phil's eyes widened in shock as she offered the wig to him. "You can have it, since you like it so much."

The girls erupted in laughter, and she joined them, cackling and almost dropping her bowling ball to the floor. Phil stood there for a moment, watching her laugh, listening to the sounds of her chuckles, the way she breathed in between guffaws, and Phil felt himself smile.

_It's all about **confidence**._

He reached out and grabbed hold of the wig, lifting it up and letting the long curls drape down to his shoulders. The laughter had ceased almost instantly, and she stared at him, her mouth hanging open. The bangs hung low, so he brushed them to the side.

"I don't know, it doesn't seem to work for me," Phil said as the hairpiece rested on top of his scalp, "It looks much better on you."

She started laughing, harder than before. Phil wasn't sure if that was a good sign, and for the first time, he glanced over at her friends. They looked extra pale up close, but he noticed the way they seemed to smile softly at each other, at him. He could hear the raucous laughter and pounding on the table from his buddies, and the way it seemed to rise above all the other sounds attacking his ears, but nothing was able to mute _her_ laughter, and the way it seemed to ring out and vibrate _through_ Phil.

She reached out and took back the wig, resting it once again on her head. She fixed it slightly, and the illusion was complete. It looked natural on her, and even though Phil knew the hair was false, it didn't appear that way to him. She smiled and it lit up her whole face. She reached up and began touching the wooden object hanging around her neck.

"So let's try this again," he said, "Hi, I'm Phil."

The music pulsed and people laughed and pins fell and balls rolled and he could still hear her, clear as a bell.

"It's very nice to meet you, Phil," she said, "My name is Melissa."

-B-A-T-T-L-E-

Phil smiled to himself, recalling what was perhaps one of his most cherished memories. It was the first time he had seen her, the first time that they had spoken. It had all started there, in that bowling alley, their lives intertwining. It was strange, how such a small moment in time could affect everything else in his life, but Phil supposed that was just how things went. He had seen less and less of his friends as he saw more and more of Melissa, and he even befriended some of her friends (the same girls who had joined her for bowling that night). But that was inevitable, since they were all in the same ward at the hospital.

But Phil didn't enjoy thinking of the hospital, even though that was where he and Melissa spent most of their time together. He could still smell the disinfectant that seemed to cover everything – the walls, the floors, the instruments – and he could still feel the pain in his eyes from the blinding _white_ that gave everything a sterile quality.

As much as he hated it there, Phil loved it too. Because Melissa was always there, waiting for him. Most days she would just lie there and they would chat, but sometimes she was already up and dressed and ready to go out with him. And Phil would have walked through hell and back just to see the smile on her face when she caught sight of him walking into her room.

The boy sighed, wishing he could make out her smile one more time. But her face continued to shift before his mind's eye, like he could _almost_ see her, but an opaque screen was shielding his gaze. The more he tried to force it, the more her features eluded him, so Phil sighed again, taking in plenty of air.

It was getting distinctly warmer in the playing field. Not overbearing, but Phil could feel the moisture hanging in the air, and he knew that the day would only get hotter. He wasn't sure if the forest was the correct place to be, because while it offered plenty of shade, it would also allow the heat to linger amongst the branches and leaves. Phil considered making his way into the village and finding a small hut in which to take refuge, but the idea of discovering someone already inside a shack was enough for Phil to steer clear. He didn't want any surprises.

However, Phil was most likely better equipped than most. He had been designated one of the few guns present in the game, and with it, he had stripped a major competitor of his hand scythe. A short range weapon and one for distance – Phil was doing fine for himself. Although, the boy wasn't playing. He had decided, right at the start, to hoard the weapons of people who were openly playing, thereby removing threats without taking any lives. Sure, it was a short-term goal, and it didn't solve any long-term problems, but it was the best Phil had come up with, and that was good enough for him.

Phil had acquired the hand scythe from the College Crowd-er Riley (Boy #6), and even though he had been attacked by the dangerous boy, Phil was still extremely relieved to discover from the announcements that he hadn't killed Riley with his warning shot. It had sounded like the bullet had made contact, but Riley was still alive, and Phil took solace in the fact that there was no blood on his hands.

Phil couldn't fathom the idea of taking another's life. The pure arrogance of it – to assume that one person had the right, the power, to decide when another human should die – was something that Phil couldn't accept on any level. It went against everything the boy had faith in, everything he believed to be true. People died – that was a fact that everyone had to face at one time or another. But no one, NO ONE, had the right to say when another _should_ die. Those matters, in Phil's opinion, should be left entirely in God's hands.

_Otherwise, there would be no justification for why people die young, if not for God's will._

He sighed. Thinking about death made the boy depressed, and given the circumstances, such thoughts only made him feel worse. He needed some other distraction in The Program. There weren't too many other students in the playing field that Phil knew on a personal level – and not a one that he could call a true friend. There were a few he knew from his Writer's Group, but he didn't feel any desire to search for them – not just because he considered most to be casual acquaintances, but also because he wasn't sure if some had decided to play.

A cool breeze wafted by the boy, and the boy closed his eyes, relishing in the fleeting, soft caress. With the rising heat, the refreshing gust was exactly what the boy needed. The forest could feel overbearing, mostly because sight was obstructed for a majority of the time. Branches and leaves easily concealed objects until Phil stumbled over them, and he often feared that he would soon trip over a contestant looking to slice him open. And sometimes the boy felt like the plant life was slowly closing in on him, trying to smother him. So when the boy found a small clearing, he decided to stop, and give himself some time to breathe.

The sun was shining down on him, and so the boy made his way into the shade, wanting to avoid direct sunlight, which would only heat up his body more. He leaned up against a tree, feeling the bark dig into his back. He knelt down and then sat on the ground, once again with his back to the bark, although he found a more comfortable location. He took a few quick breaths, trying to let everything flow out of him – the fear, the anxiety, the panic. He closed his eyes, watching the features of Melissa's visage slowly come together. A pit formed in his stomach as her face came into view, but he fought against any sort of reaction, not wanting anything to wreck his chance of seeing her again.

"Hey," a female voice said, breaking the boy's concentration. Phil's eyes snapped open and he saw her standing in front of him. How she managed to get so close without alerting Phil, the boy had no idea. But he saw the katana she held in one hand, and the other at her hip, as her face revealed an apathetic glare.

"So, do you want to kill me?"

Phil reacted immediately, pulling the gun from his pocket and aiming at her. The girl responded just as fast, racing off into the woods surrounding the clearing. The boy stood, placing himself in the center, the gun aimed at the location from which she had vanished. There was a rustling off to the side, and Phil spun, trying to locate her. His first thought had been that she had run off in fear, but he knew that she was still close by, lurking in the shrubbery.

"I don't want to fight," Phil announced as more rustling caught his attention behind him.

"The gun you pointed at me says otherwise," her voice responded, deadpan. Phil turned, but he still couldn't see her.

"I'm sorry," Phil said, "You startled me."

There was a pause, as silence seemed to settle over the whole area. Nothing moved, and no noises caught the boy's ears. He figured that she had left, when her voice suddenly wafted from his side.

"Put the gun down, and we can talk," she said.

Phil glanced down at his firearm, and he took a long breath. If she had really wanted to kill Phil, she could have done so while his eyes were closed, long before he was even aware of her presence. But the fact that she was still lurking out of view, didn't that make her a threat? Didn't it imply that she was looking for a fight? Either way, he wasn't going to be able to locate her, and all she had to do was wait for him to leave the clearing to start her attack. Phil was trapped. And that meant that he didn't have too many other options.

"Okay," Phil said, gently placing the gun on the ground, and stepping back from it. He held his hands up, waiting for something to happen, trying to determine from where she would emerge. A minute passed, and the boy questioned whether she was still in the area.

She appeared behind him, the katana placed gently at his throat. He tensed up, his body suddenly aware of the danger that he was in. He cursed himself for being such an idiot, for disarming himself, for letting the gun slip through his fingers. He was utterly at her mercy. His legs shook and he tried to see her out of the corner of his eye, but she was just beyond his peripheral vision, and he didn't dare turning his head – not with the blade so close to his neck.

"If you aren't playing," she spoke softly into his ear, "Then why do you have _two_ weapons?"

The sickle was grasped from his back pocket, and Phil shook with fear.

_Oh God, I'm going to die._

"I took it from another contestant," Phil said, but he was quick to add, "But I didn't kill him!"

"Why should I believe you?" she said quietly, the curved blade appearing on the opposite shoulder as the katana. He had two razor edges hovering at his throat, cutting off his escape to either side, as well as the front. The boy had nowhere left to run, and he racked his brain to save himself.

"Because I dropped the gun," Phil said.

The girl didn't say anything for a minute, and Phil stood there, too terrified to move, to say anything else. He breathing came in short gasps, trying not to expand his chest too far and accidentally graze one of the sharp blades at his neck. He waited, and prayed softly to himself, until she finally dropped both weapons, and the boy collapsed forward, his hands reaching up to his vulnerable throat. He turned and stared up at her, her face unchanged from that first moment he saw her.

"So you took this?" she said, turning the hand scythe over and over in her palm. She handed it back to him and Phil nodded, thanking her for returning the weapon.

"From Riley," Phil said, "He tried to kill me."

"So you say," she replied.

"If you don't believe me, then why did you let me go?"

"I'm only fighting threats," she said with a shrug, "It's how I've decided to play."

"So you _are_ playing," Phil said walking over to the gun. He picked it up and gazed at her, and she didn't remove her eyes from him for a second. However, she blinked a few times when Phil returned the gun to his pocket.

"I figured it was only worth my time to fight the people trying to kill me," she said, "We'll _all_ play, one way or another."

"I won't," Phil said with conviction, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"Then you'll die," she said simply.

Silence settled over them for a minute, both of them breathing quietly as the forest whispered around them. With the gun back in his possession, Phil knew that he could strip her of the sword, but for some reason it didn't feel right. She had admitted it – she was _playing_ – but there was something about her demeanor, about the way she looked at it. She was removing threats from the game, much like Phil was. Granted, she was doing it by murder, but it was arguably a form of self-defense. Did that make her a threat?

"What's your name?" Phil said.

"I'm Tonya (Girl #7)," she said.

"I'm Phil," the boy said, but Tonya didn't seem to visually respond. "How many people have you fought?"

"None," she said, shaking her head, "Although to be fair, you're only the third I've come across."

"Who else?" Phil said, wanting to know who wasn't playing to win.

"One of the FLAs," Tonya said, "The gay one – Noah (Boy #18). And the other was that big Greek kid. Plays football, probably. I think his name is Adonis (Boy #5)."

Phil nodded, although he didn't know much about either boy. Granted, he could identify either on sight, and that would be helpful if Phil's path ended up crossing with theirs.

"What happens when there aren't any other contestants that want to kill you?" Phil said.

"What happens when you have taken everyone else's weapons?" Tonya said in reply. Phil smiled, and nodded his head slightly, noting the clever rebuttal to his question. Although, he didn't see even a hint of a smirk on Tonya's face. He took a long breath, and glanced off to the side, trying to decide what his next move should be. It took a moment to realize that she was already walking off into the forest. He was silent for a minute, the shock of her abrupt departure taking its time to register.

"Good luck!" Phil called after her, although he wasn't sure if she heard it. And he felt a little stupid for wishing her luck in her endeavors to fight until death. He watched the area where she had vanished, trying to make sense of everything that had just happened. He was still in one piece, which was good, and there was still no blood on his hands. Something about Tonya had unsettled him, however – something that he couldn't quite put his finger on. It wasn't just that she had disrupted his first attempt at seeing Melissa's face. And it wasn't simply that she had held Phil's life in her hands. Or even that there was almost no emotion in her face whatsoever.

But that was when it finally came to him. There had been no smile, no expression, nothing at all. But he saw it, somewhere deep in her eyes. That had been her undoing, apparently – she could control many things about her face, but not what the depths of her eyes revealed.

"Sad," Phil said quietly to himself, "Her eyes looked…sad…"

-R-O-Y-A-L-E-

It wasn't his fault!

Not completely, at least.

After all, the odds of being released just before his girlfriend were not in his favor, especially given the number of students still remaining in the classroom when he departed. If he had checked the contestant list, he would have seen that she was the next name, the girl who would be released after him, but he had been so _scared_ – he simply panicked. And much like checking the list he had been provided, if he had waited for her outside the school, anticipating her emergence, he would have been pleasantly surprised to see her appear in the doorway. But without that knowledge, instead thinking that he would be in close proximity with other students, he was terrified. What if the next person stepped out of the doorway, met his gaze, pointed a gun at his head, and then pulled the trigger?

It was his fear that caused Micah (Boy #7) to sprint away into the forest upon entering The Program. And it was that same horror that caused him, perhaps, to miss the only opportunity to meet up with his girlfriend, Tonya. He could almost see the relief in her face, knowing that she was the next person to enter The Program after Micah. He could visualize the hope that slowly grew in her eyes as she raced for the open door. And he could feel the desperation, the pain, the abandonment, once she realized that Micah hadn't been waiting for her. He could feel it, like a deep stab to his abdomen, the rejection and terror mixing inside her stomach as she was forced to wander off – alone.

He took a painful gasp and squeezed his eyes shut. He hadn't intended to leave her behind. Truly, he hadn't! It was just a mistake – an error that had caused him to flee. Would Tonya see it that way? Would she understand that Micah wanted to find her, wanted to be with her, that he had been too stupid to realize the obvious?

The sun shone through the lone window of the hut in which Micah sat. He was hunched beneath the opening, so that anyone passing by and glimpsing into the structure would overlook his presence. The door off to the right was the only way in or out of the shack, and if anyone was going to discover Micah, it would be from there. His hiding spot was sufficient for the moment, although the boy felt that he would have to relocate at some point.

It wasn't just fear that kept Micah hidden in the shadows. His weapon was nunchaku, or nunchucks if identified by the Americanized moniker. But no matter how it was called, Micah could only think of one word when he held his weapon:

_Useless._

The boy felt that in capable hands, the nunchucks would most likely be a valuable and powerful weapon, but in the grip of a novice like Micah, it was just two sticks attached by a chain. He was more likely to kill someone by asphyxiation than by blunt force trauma, but choking someone required getting much closer to another contestant than the boy was comfortable with. And that was if he was playing at all.

Which he wasn't.

Back at the very beginning, while sitting in the classroom getting berated by Miss Smith, he had decided there. No one would die by his hand. Not ONE death. The government thought that it could tell him to kill and he'd simply nod and head off to war? Well, fuck the government! Micah had become an anarchist from the moment he discovered the word existed. The government only made things worse – run by corrupt, evil people simply trying to propagate themselves and their careers, filling their pockets with blood money as they stepped over the bodies of the people they were "helping".

The Program was simply more proof that the government was incapable of _anything_ that would help human society progress towards a peaceful future. Violence and war and hate and blood had become part of people's reality – part of their entertainment! As long as The Program existed, Americans would only see war as an extension of the most popular reality television show on the planet! People were losing their minds, their individuality, their humanity – all by watching and endorsing and allowing The Program to continue. The Program was the physical manifestation of everything _wrong_ with American politics and society.

_Anarchy all the way, baby!_

But that was easier said than done. Micah had refused to play. Sure, it was easy to have convictions, but difficult to stick by them when things got tough. Would Micah have the fortitude to stand firm as a gun was pointed at his face? He hoped so, although his record up to that point was simply to run at the slightest hint of danger. But at the very least, Micah had decided, early on, that he would die in The Program. Refusing to play would result in him getting killed – at one point or another. It was only a matter of time. And while that thought was truly horrifying, it was also a little liberating. Micah didn't have the sense of hope gnawing at his insides, whispering to him that he could still make it out alive, somehow. Instead, his mind was quiet, already subdued by the notion that, in the next two and half days, he would die. He felt like a nonviolent protestor, a passive civil disobedient. And it made him feel good – he was finally taking a stand against the government, just like he had always wanted to.

It was getting warm inside the hut – a little _too_ warm – and Micah wondered if there was a cooler place somewhere else in the playing field. The cliffs to the east were by the ocean, but without a beach, Micah doubted he could appreciate the crisp salty water. There was the lake to the northwest as well, but it was a little too close to the square 20 danger zone for Micah's liking. He also suspected that it was cooler up in the mountains to the west, but climbing up a steep incline was not appealing to the boy in the least. No, it was easier to sit in the hut.

_But staying here won't help me find Tonya, either._

That appeared to be the only goal that would motivate Micah to stand and leave what little safety the shack provided. He highly suspected that both he and Tonya would die in The Program, and he flat out refused to allow Tonya to die thinking that Micah didn't care for her, wasn't worried about her, or had purposely abandoned her to fend for herself. If it took every last bit of strength that the boy had, he would make sure Tonya knew the truth. That Micah cared about her very, _very_ much.

I would probably have an easier time convincing her, if we didn't have that fight right before…

But that was of no more concern. Their spat, however important it had seemed to Micah when it occurred, paled in comparison to a situation like The Program. Feeling empowered, the boy rose to his feet, ready to once again venture outside and search for his girlfriend. His eyes drifted to the open window. A few feet away, a male stood, his back to Micah. In his right hand, the boy gripped a bloody knife, and Micah felt the subconscious urge to gasp, but he bit his lip so hard he quickly tasted blood inside his mouth. Even with his back turned, Micah knew who he was looking at.

It was Hank (Boy #15).

The same boy who had attacked Miss Smith and survived. Micah felt his legs freeze, and the air remained trapped inside his lungs. It was important, no, absolutely _necessary_ for Micah to slowly drop back to the ground in his hut and resume his hiding beneath the window, but for some reason, his body didn't want to respond.

_Get down before he sees you!_

By the look of the blood stained weapon, Micah knew that Hank was playing, as if his performance back in the classroom hadn't been enough of an indicator. If Hank saw Micah, that was it – there would be no time to find Tonya, no way to escape. He would die.

And then he saw the slight turn, the ducking of the shoulder, as if it was happening in slow motion. Hank was about to turn around, and there would be no way that he would miss seeing Micah in the open window. But still, the boy couldn't find the right message to tell his body to react. The fear had frozen him in time, but it hadn't affected any of the other contestants. He felt a sudden weakness in his legs, the sensation of them about to give out, and with some anxiety, allowed his legs to give way, collapsing to the dirt floor with a soft thud. His body finally responding to his orders, Micah scurried to his spot beneath the open window, pulling his legs in close.

_Did he see me?_

Micah figured he would find out soon enough. If Hank had seen Micah, then at any moment, the door would bust open and Micah would either have to scurry out the window, or find some other way to escape. He had no intention of taking a life, but he wouldn't give up without a fight – not until he was sure that Tonya was aware of his feelings for her.

The minutes ticked by slowly. What seemed like thirty minutes was actually closer to three, once Micah checked the pocket watch. He tried to quiet his breathing, but that only seemed to agitate the whole process, and the boy felt like he was loudly gasping for air with each inhalation. His eyes were locked on the door, waiting for it to slowly open, for Hank to stand there with the knife in his hand, for the quick slice that would end Micah's life.

He almost wet his pants when he saw the silhouette of a head appear in the sunlight streaming through the window. Micah tried to pull his legs in closer, to absorb them into his body. The shadow turned to the right, and then the left. Micah squeezed his eyes shut, trying to become invisible, to dissolve into sand and vanish into the floor. But there was a loud creak, and he felt the flimsy wall behind him shift with weight. The boy opened his eyes, and glanced upwards. What stared back was Hank's grinning face, staring down at him through the window.

"Hi," Hank said, the knife ready to strike.

Micah wasn't exactly sure when he had grabbed the nunchucks, but he was suddenly aware of their presence in his hand and he swung upwards, watching one of the ends connect with Hank's nose. The boy recoiled in pain, his head vanishing from the opening.

_RUN!_

He wasn't sure if he screamed it or if it was his inner voice forcing him to stand, but Micah jumped to his feet and raced for the door. But somewhere between the moment he had risen and the instance that Micah rested a hand on the door, ready to push it open, his brain had time to register everything, and to catch up with the present.

Why did he do that? If he wanted to attack me, why not just enter the shack and cut off my only escape route? Is it because he wanted to make sure I didn't have a gun? No, that's not it. I was able to surprise him with my weapon, so why…

And just before he shoved the door open, there was a split-second moment of hesitation, and Micah found the space to breathe.

He **wants** me to exit this door.

A trap.

And Micah pushed the door open, his body already responding to the realization he had come to, leaping into the air like an agile gazelle. He looked down as he flew, noticing the object, like a gaping, hungry mouth just outside the door frame. He landed on the soft dirt, and without missing a beat, took off, although he was completely unaware of which way he was heading. His only thought was to escape.

He did.

-B-A-T-T-L-E-

Hank watched the vanishing figure through watery eyes. He wanted to race after Micah, but he knew that it was unlikely that he would catch the boy without sustaining some other form of damage. He had one hand at his nose, plugging up both nostrils in order to stop the blood flow. He sighed with frustration, eyeing the bear trap on the ground just a few feet away. For the life of him, Hank couldn't fathom how the boy had known to jump upon exiting the house. He'd sailed over the trap like he'd had the precognitive powers to know of its location ahead of time. But Hank knew such things didn't exist. His prey had simply gotten lucky.

_Very_ lucky.

But, apparently, so had Hank. He hadn't expected the boy to attack, and Hank could only imagine what would have happened if the boy had been designated a gun instead of nunchaku. Pieces of Hank's brain would have covered the whole area. But Hank had known of the nunchucks beforehand – he'd seen them in Micah's grip before the boy had time to duck back into the shadows. So, he'd been reckless, but not dangerously so. The idea was to scare his target out of the shack and cripple him with the bear trap, without having to worry about facing down another opponent head on. However, things never go exactly as planned, and the boy had escaped.

It violated Hank's Rule Number Two: always eliminate the target. It caused a small knot to form in the middle of his stomach to break one of his rules. They were in place to keep him safe, to maintain his cover. Since Hank was working out in the open, making it very apparent to every contestant that he was playing to win, he didn't have to worry so much about his rules. Most were concerned with keeping his identity as a hitman a secret – but such concerns were irrelevant in The Program, in which everyone was a potential assassin.

He'd been unable to eliminate the prey, and it was his first failure of The Program. The first time that another contestant had escaped. While there was some disappointment churning inside his gut, Hank couldn't help but feel a certain degree of excitement as well. He still hadn't come across a worthy opponent, but some of the other contestants had tricks up their sleeves. It was enough to motivate Hank, to get him excited about his next confrontation.

He felt bad for the next person he came across.

The boy's eyes drifted over to the bear trap. It would be difficult, not to mention dangerous, to lug the metallic trap around while it was still ready to spring shut. But perhaps that was the only way for it to be of any use. Besides, there was the short chain attached to the side that would make it easier to carry. Hank walked over and picked up the trap, careful to hold it out and away from his body.

The blood had stopped pouring from Hank's nostrils, and he took a moment to inhale deeply through his nose, gathering the blood and mucous at the back of his nasal cavity before clearing his throat and spitting the toxic mixture onto the ground. He grabbed a water bottle and rinsed his mouth, removing any lingering tastes. With the hunting knife in his right hand, the throwing knife hidden away on his person, and the chain clutched in his left – with the bear trap itself being dragged behind him – the boy ventured off once again, the exhilaration of the hunt already settling over him.

-R-O-Y-A-L-E-

Lucy (Girl #?) walked through the forest with a distinct swagger. Sure, her weaponry could have been better, but with two kills to her name, the girl was feeling optimistic. The odds of her survival increased with each passing minute, as more and more students breathed their last. Lucy didn't truly care whether it was she who murdered them or not – all that mattered was the win. Keeping herself and her host alive.

Whatever it took.

Her investigation after finishing Dwayne (Boy #14) had been fruitless. The boy must have run in a serpentine manner because Lucy had not found the slightest indication of any other contestants, and she had searched as hard as she could. Lucy had found nothing, and so she had moved on.

The girl wondered how many more students had died since the morning announcements. Dwayne was Lucy's only kill in that time frame thus far, but the girl figured she could manage at least one more with the time remaining. One with a powerful weapon, if Lucy had her way. But still, she wouldn't be greedy. With the baseball bat in hand, she was more than a match for any that came her way.

**Well, except for him…**

Lucy knew a major contender when she saw one. And even though she hadn't been in control back in the classroom, she'd gathered enough information to know that Hank was definitely the man to beat. He obviously had some major skills in hand-to-hand combat, and Lucy sensed that his abilities didn't stop there. A part of her hoped that she would hear his name read off in the next set of announcements, but there was also a piece of her that wanted to feel the satisfaction of ending him with her own hands. Did she stand a chance against him? There was only one way for Lucy to find out, and that was to face him in combat.

But the girl was no fool, and didn't have any form of death wish. She would much rather shoot him in the head than try to vanquish him in a fair fight. But even so, the competitive portion of her ached for blood, for the bragging rights that Lucy felt she deserved. But a few quick breaths calmed the bloodlust that was progressively rising – if Hank was as good as she suspected, then the two of them would fight.

Sooner or later.

The soft sound of a footstep reached Lucy's ear, and the girl froze immediately. She couldn't tell exactly where it had come from, but she waited…waited…waited, until finally she heard another. It sounded closer, and Lucy felt her chest tighten – in both anticipation and fear. She needed to hide, in order to get the jump on whoever was wandering through the woods.

However, when she went to move, nothing happened. And then suddenly, the world spun. Lucy reached out and grabbed hold of a nearby tree, its sharp bark digging into her palm. She opened her mouth to take a much needed breath of fresh air, but the world spun again, and nausea rolled over her like a tidal wave.

"No," Lucy whispered quietly to her herself. Another footfall, already drawing closer.

**Not now! There's someone nearby! NOT NOW!**

The baseball bat tumbled from her hand and struck the ground with a quiet thud. She tried to glance down to pick it back up, but again her vision rotated, and Lucy barely managed to keep herself standing. She could hear the soft rustle of leaves as branches were moved, another person drawing ever closer to her location. She resisted the urge to vomit, as she felt her legs growing weaker.

**Not now! Go back to sleep! Don't wake up!**

But it was already too late.

-B-A-T-T-L-E-

Kristy (Girl #6) pushed some branches out of her face. The forest bore down on her like a leaden pillow placed over her mouth. Her mind once again drifted to the anxiety medicine, but she pushed those thoughts away. She couldn't keep doing this to herself – thinking about those little blue pills would only enable her to feel anxious, and that wouldn't solve anything. She had always wanted the chance to prove that her medicine was nothing but a placebo – here was her chance.

But Kristy wasn't so sure anymore. The past few hours felt like they had occurred in a daze. Bits and pieces sprang to mind – the waterfall, for example – but there were blank spots too. She could remember hearing Miss Smith's voice for the announcements, but not all the information that was broadcasted. She quickly checked her map and contestant list, relieved to find the crucial facts were written down. And the more she tried to remember every single detail, the larger the knot in her stomach became, until she felt the urge to hyperventilate and the girl forced herself to calm down.

She took a few quick breaths, and everything felt better. She wasn't losing her mind – her pills weren't that important. Memory loss was a side effect of her medication – it was only natural that she exhibit some symptoms, now that she no longer had the pills available to her.

Right?

Before the girl could answer herself, she stumbled forward, nearly collapsing to the ground. She banged her right knee hard, and a dull throb began to work its way into her joint. With a soft curse word, Kristy rose to her feet.

And froze.

Kristy's eyes fell on another female contestant, standing only a few feet away. The girl wobbled back and forth, like she was on the verge of falling down, but the weight was always shifted just in time so that she didn't crumple to the ground. Her eyes stared straight ahead, but they were slits, barely open at all, and they had a glazed appearance, like she was watching a movie screen flicker miles away. Her arms hung loosely at her sides, and it seemed that her mouth was moving, like she was mumbling something to herself.

Kristy stared at her fellow FLA, Jillian (Girl #18).

"Jill," Kristy said without thinking, and she watched Jillian's eyes widen instantly and her body tense before bringing both hands up to her head. The girl mumbled something about a headache before glancing to the side, her gaze falling on Kristy for the first time. Kristy stood, unsure of how to feel. It appeared that Jillian was having some kind of trouble, and while her first thought was to reach out and help her friend, the overwhelming reality of the situation would not dissipate.

Can I trust Jillian?

It was a question Kristy felt she should have answered before accidentally announcing her presence. For a few moments the girls simply stared at each other, neither one smiling, Kristy hoping to see the slightest hint of camaraderie in the other FLA's body language. But Jillian remained where she was, her hands gently massaging her forehead, her eyes locked on Kristy's.

Jillian had always been a tough egg to crack, in Kristy's opinion. She was intense, almost unnecessarily so, and she was competitive. But Jillian was also very intelligent, capable, and driven, and she was definitely better to have as an ally than an enemy. Kristy wasn't looking for any adversaries. Even though she was aware that Jillian had her own opinion of Kristy's boyfriend Raymond (Boy #11), the girl decided to leave the past where it belonged. It was better to treat Jillian as a friend than as a suspicious stranger. Kristy put on her most genuine smile – ready to break the ice.

"Jillian," Kristy said, "I'm glad I found you."

Jillian let out a soft sigh and returned a small smile of her own. And in that moment, Kristy knew that everything would be okay. All that worrying she had done – wondering whether the other FLAs would come together or if they would let the game tear them apart, fostering all that anxiety from losing her medication and the subsequent side effects, feeling the fear and paranoia and distrust and all the rest – it all dissolved away. She took a long breath, and it felt like the first time she had inhaled in hours. She would have someone to stand by her side, a friend to help her through the rest of The Program.

And suddenly, everything seemed be looking up. Kristy was positive that she and Jillian could find the remaining four FLAs and Raymond too and they could all figure out some way out of the playing field. They were brightest kids in their entire school – if anyone could discover an escape, they could. Kristy felt the hope welling inside her chest, and even though she knew reality would inevitably come to ground her once again, it was a nice sensation to experience, if only for the moment.

The moment didn't last long.

Kristy's gaze drifted to an object just off to Jillian's side. At first, she wasn't sure what it was, but as she stepped closer, she discovered it to be a metal baseball bat. She was about to ask Jillian if it was her designated weapon, when her voice caught inside her throat. Her eyes flew back to Jillian's face, at the confusion that was plastered there, as Jillian had followed Kristy's stare and had noticed the bat as well.

The dark red stain couldn't possibly be anything else. Blood was smeared all along one side of the surface, and despite the physical reaction it was manifesting inside Kristy, the bat continued to just lay there, nonchalant, unassuming. Kristy took a step back, feeling nauseous. She closed her eyes, and then forced them back open, not wanting to lose sight of Jillian for a second.

"No, no," Kristy said softly, "How could you? How could you play?"

"Kristy," Jillian said. Kristy instantly reached into her duffel, pulling out her designated weapon. The taser zapped to life as she pressed the button on the side, aiming it straight at Jillian.

"Stay back!" Kristy said in a high-pitched scream, her weapon erupting in the silent forest that surrounded them. Jillian backed away, before glancing at the baseball bat once again. In a few quick steps she raced over and lifted the metal object, holding it at the ready. Kristy's eyes widened as her mind screeched in fear.

Jillian was playing.

With that sudden realization, Kristy's dreams of finding her friends, her hopes of discovering an escape, evaporated as panic took over. She was standing in the middle of a forest with someone carrying a bloody baseball bat, someone who was watching her with a predator's eye. But worst of all, that predator was someone Kristy had considered a friend.

Kristy took off, not feeling the ground pound beneath her feet, not hearing the loud zaps from the taser she was still clutching. All she could hear was Jillian saying her name over and over again, like the girl's voice was chasing Kristy. She panted as she sprinted, trying to force oxygen into her lungs. It didn't appear that Jillian was chasing Kristy, but it was some time before the girl ventured a glance back to check. She paused, not hearing a thing, and for a moment, she forgot all about her medicine, her anxiety, how the last couple of hours all seemed to blend together.

Instead, she gasped for air, wondering if the other FLAs had come to the same decision as Jillian. She speculated whether the rest of her friends were playing to win as well. Kristy closed her eyes, trying to picture their smiling faces, but all she could see was Jillian's intense stare with the blood-stained bat in her hands. And then the most horrifying thought of all crossed her mind.

What about Raymond?

It almost felt like a physical blow, how much the idea threw her back. She had been worried that another contestant would attack Raymond, but what would she do if he were playing to win? What if he attacked her? Would she be able to talk him out of it? The thoughts and scenarios spun around inside the girl's head, and mixed with the panic that still clawed at her, Kristy turned to her side and began to dry heave, since there was very little inside her stomach.

Please, she thought, please let him be the same boy I remember.

She could still see his goofy smile, and the light scars on his face. It relaxed her slightly, but it also made her long for the boy even more. She needed to know that Raymond hadn't been twisted by The Program, that he was still the sensitive guy she had come to care for. He was the only one Kristy felt she could trust.

He has to be okay. He **has** to be. I don't know what I'll do if I lose him.

She shook her head, feeling the sting of tears at the corners of her eyes. The adrenaline slowly left her veins, allowing for the fatigue of everything to weigh down upon Kristy, forcing her to the ground, almost burying her. The taser suddenly seemed to weigh ten times more, and the girl didn't think she could lift it, even if she tried.

I just don't know…

-R-O-Y-A-L-E-

Jillian was at a loss.

She stood, dumbfounded, the metal bat loosely gripped by one hand. She could almost hear Kristy's scream, telling Jillian to stay back. The leaves whispered secrets around her, and she struggled to hear them, if only to be told some explanation. But the forest wouldn't divulge any information, and the girl was left to her own theories.

The first problem she needed to address was her location. The girl had no idea where she was. Absolutely zero. And that was a problem, because the last thing she wanted to do was wander out of the playing field or into a danger zone. The girl pulled out her map and was surprised to see that certain areas had markings, designating them as current or pending danger zones.

A throb of pain erupted inside her head, and the girl winced in pain, rubbing her forehead with a free hand. She struggled to remember the morning announcements, and finally they came to her. That's right, she had been sleepy, but she vaguely recalled writing down the necessary information. And then it all went blank again. The last real memory that Jillian could visualize was when she stood by the cliffs to the east, her designated weapon, a rose, gripped in her hand.

She rummaged through her duffel bag, but the rose was nowhere in sight. She must have disposed of it, or left it behind somewhere, but Jillian couldn't remember exactly how.

Looks like I'm sleepwalking again.

It wasn't the most unreasonable conclusion to Jillian. She had had the same problem when she was a child, unable to cope with the high expectations of her plan to become Dictator. But as she matured and found ways to cope with the anxiety, the sleepwalking had ceased. However, in a stressful situation like The Program, it wouldn't be unheard of for Jillian's coping mechanism to return. It even explained the headaches that Jillian was getting – a side effect of her movement and activity while in a dreamlike state. It made perfect sense.

The only problem was the bat.

Jillian had absolutely no explanation for the bloody baseball bat. She didn't know if it was hers – theoretically, anyone could have dropped the bat and Jillian had simply stumbled upon it – but who would leave a bloody weapon just lying on the ground?

Another flash of pain erupted inside her cranium, and the girl hissed from the sudden ache.

No, in all likelihood, the bat was hers. But that raised a few problems of its own. First, what in the hell was Jillian doing while unconscious? The response to that was obvious – she was murdering other contestants, but it wasn't an answer that the girl was comfortable with. She didn't like the idea that she wasn't in complete control of herself. She remembered the stories her parents would tell her after a restless night – how she would make ten peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, or brush her teeth again, or stack her textbooks in a certain order – all while sleepwalking. It seemed comical to them, but to Jillian it was distressing – her body was acting on its own. There was someone else behind the wheel (her inner buccaneer?), and Jillian couldn't find any sort of comfort in that.

The sensation was the same. Even though Jillian had decided to play to win, she was doing it without any willful effort on her part – and Jillian refused to trust anyone else with her life, even her own subconscious. What if her sleeping body wandered into a danger zone? Or came across a threat that could easily dispose of her while in her vulnerable state?

Looking at the bat, Jillian wondered just how vulnerable her subconscious actually was. Apparently it was capable enough to dispose of another contestant. That made Jillian feel even worse, and a sense of revulsion flowed through her as she continued to hold the bat. If she could justify leaving it behind, Jillian would do so. But without any other weapon, the metal baseball bat was a necessity.

She stood in the forest, the bat clutched in one hand, while her other was clenched into a tight fist. The sun shown down from between the spaces of the leaves, but it offered little warmth. Despite the rising temperature, Jillian couldn't help feeling cold. No icy breezes wafted by her, and yet there was something chilling about the whole situation. Perhaps the reason for that had been Kristy's presence – maybe Jillian wouldn't have felt so foreign if Kristy hadn't been there to shove the reality into Jillian's face. The Program was still going on, Jillian had apparently been playing, and she had virtually no recollection of it – not exactly the kind of truth that was easily swallowed upon waking. If she had woken up alone, Jillian could have gotten used to the idea slowly, but Kristy had been there, throwing the girl off-balance.

Maybe I should have killed her.

The idea was valid, but Jillian felt it was more important to get her bearings than to claim a kill. What she should have done was use Kristy as an ally, attacking her once Jillian had been informed of her location inside the playing field. Hindsight was always 20/20, and it was no good wondering what she should have done. Jillian had to move forward. Her first step was to stop sleeping. Without sleep, The Program would become increasingly more difficult, but it would prevent her from sleepwalking, allowing Jillian complete control of herself. The second step was to pick a direction and go with it, hoping to locate a landmark or something of that sort before her collar ended her performance.

She sighed. Things weren't going according to her plan. There was always something to toss a wrench into the works, and this time, the proverbial wrench could very well kill Jillian. But the girl was confident – easy paths were for the lazy, and anything worth having was worth fighting for. If her sleepwalking was going to be an obstacle for her to avoid, then the girl would prepare to soar over it without breaking stride.

Jillian's hand tightened on the handle of the baseball bat. The sight of the blood still caused a knot to form in her stomach, but it also motivated her, causing her to clench her jaw and breath deeply through her nostrils.

West.

She'd head toward the mountains, and gain some idea of her spatial location from the altitude. There was the possibility that she would wander into a danger zone in her trek, but it was a safer bet than heading north or south. With a quick nod to herself, she brought the bat up and rested it on her shoulder, careful to make sure that the bloody side wasn't against her clothes. Jillian quickly checked her compass and then started off. Feeling more like a shortstop than a pirate, the girl was hesitant at first, but the confidence returned, slowly, like a pair of seas legs.

The captain was at the helm once again.

Current Danger Zones: 20, 28

Pending Danger Zones: 21, 33

(41) Contestants Remaining


	13. Don't Forget

Isabelle (Girl #4) was careful to watch her step. The road was curvy and winding, and so Isabelle had settled on taking a more direct route, instead slowly descending the steep declines from the mountains. It was taking Isabelle longer than she had anticipated, and the girl decided that she would return to trotting along the road, if only to forego a potential broken leg. The ground had become particularly steep, and Isabelle sat down on the earth, trying to slide her way through the dangerous area. Her feet flew out beneath her, and the girl found herself slipping down the side of the hill, but she reached out and grabbed some vegetation, yanking it from the dirt, but slowing herself enough to stop her quick descent.

She took a few quick breaths, her palms aching slightly from the recent slip. She calmed herself down, removing the ideas of plummeting from the mountaintop, the visions of sharp rocks racing at her before everything went black. No, those kinds of thoughts would do absolutely nothing to help Isabelle. Instead, the girl needed to drink some water and find some shade. The sun was beginning to beat down on her neck, and she could feel a few lines of sweat dripping down her body. She took a quick whiff of her armpit, and recoiled her head, discovering that she was slightly less than fresh.

The day had gotten progressively warmer. It hadn't started out too hot, but the temperature had risen gradually, so subtly that it wasn't even noticeable. But Isabelle had noticed it, perhaps, before anyone else. Up in the mountain range, there was virtually nothing to shield her from the sun's rays, and so the rise in heat had been one of the first things the girl had been aware of. She had tried to sleep, because both her body and mind whined in fatigue, but every time her collar detector made even the slightest noise, Isabelle had felt wide awake, terrorized that someone had finally discovered her.

The truth was that her device would periodically make beeping noises, but this knowledge alone was not enough to allow the girl some rest. Instead, the fatigue, restlessness, fear, and rise in body temperature all began to drive Isabelle insane, and she decided to venture down from the mountains, if only to relieve the discomfort of her situation. It was no cooler down in the valley, but Isabelle suspected that a sea breeze would be rushing into the playing field, and that would give her some form of relief.

_And on the way, I might as well look for Dwayne (Boy #14)._

The boy was Isabelle's only potential ally in the entire playing field. Her other friends had been spared the horror of The Program, and she was definitely neither a College Crowd-er nor a FLA. There were very few people that Isabelle would trust at all, and virtually none on sight. The exception, of course, was Dwayne. The two of them had grown apart in the past few years, but Isabelle didn't feel like that was a major issue. Dwayne had become preoccupied with his long line of girlfriends, and Isabelle had found other friends, ones that didn't get uncomfortable when she brought up menstrual cramps. But that didn't suggest that the two people didn't still care about each other in some fashion. She trusted him, and Isabelle knew that Dwayne trusted her too.

_But he doesn't love you._

Whoa, where had _that_ thought come from? It probably leaked out of Isabelle's subconscious. She had thought about it in the past – it would be strange if she hadn't, but for some reason she always came to the same conclusion. She and Dwayne just couldn't be a couple – it was that simple. There was something missing in their relationship that would have taken them to the next level, something integral to change Isabelle's view of her friend to an object of desire. Thinking about being intimate with him made her feel…weird. And she was pretty sure that Dwayne felt the same way about her – he'd made no indications that he had ever wanted anything more with her than a simple friendship. Well, except for that one time when he'd dropped his pants to show himself off, but they had both been kids back then, and neither had given the situation a second thought.

No, she and Dwayne were friends, and that was how it would stay. However, that didn't make the girl any less concerned with finding Dwayne. Did Isabelle _need_ an ally? No. But it would be nice to have someone else around, someone to keep watch while she caught some much needed rest, someone to make the whole scenario a little less…hopeless.

_Don't forget._

The statement persisted in her mind, but still the girl had no answer. It was ironic that her brain continued to relay messages to her about not forgetting _something_, but there was no hint as to what that something was. Ironic _and_ frustrating, because the thoughts wouldn't leave Isabelle alone, and every time they popped up again, she was reminded that there was something important that was eluding her consciousness – the unspoken word on the tip of her tongue, the afterimage of an occasion that was still lurking in the shadows.

Isabelle pushed the statement away, instead focusing on her descent. The answer would come to her, sooner or later.

She slid a little further, and then made a little leap, finally landing on the level surface of the dirt road that led down from the mountains. She breathed a quick sigh of relief and adjusted the strap from her duffel bag over her shoulder. Isabelle walked slowly along the road, careful not to trip on stray rocks or stumble into holes that could easily roll her ankles.

The Program had progressed smoothly for her thus far. She hadn't been discovered by any of the other contestants, and the only danger that had come her way was from traversing the mountains. With the collar detector by her side, the girl could easily avoid all the other contestants for the remainder of the game. Doing so wouldn't solve any of her problems, but avoiding her murderous classmates sounded like a good idea, especially since Isabelle had very little trust to pass around.

The rest of her hike went smoothly, Isabelle casually walking along the dirt road once she had completely descended from the mountain range. She remembered, without looking at her map, that the road would lead into the village, but would also loop around it in a circle. She could see herself casually strolling along the road for all three days, but the danger zones had made a stretch of the road off limits to the north of the town. Still, a leisurely walk sounded pleasant, and Isabelle didn't feel the urge to enter the village, where she suspected a good majority of contestants hid amongst the shacks and shanties. Walking along the road would leave her out in the open, but the collar detector would prevent anyone from getting close enough to harm her without Isabelle becoming aware of them first. Besides, following a road seemed easier to her than trying to follow a direction on the compass.

The stroll was nice enough, although there was very little shade for the girl to escape the sunlight. Still, the wide open area allowed Isabelle to see a good distance in every direction – she didn't even really need her collar detector. However, right on cue, the machine beeped in her hand. Followed by another quick noise. The girl stopped, staring down at the device. It hadn't made _that_ sound before. She watched as a blip appeared on her screen, and Isabelle froze. She scanned the area, but could see no one.

_Is this thing malfunctioning?_

She took a few more steps, watching as the dot moved closer to her location. There was someone nearby, according to the device, but Isabelle couldn't see anyone. She took a long, wavering breath. Isabelle needed to know whether she could trust her detector, and that meant locating the contestant, if there was one to be found. She continued along the road, and the machine once again beeped in her hand. Her heart rate sped up, but she didn't stop. She walked, very cautiously, until finally she and the blip were practically on top of one another. The girl glanced around, but she still couldn't spy any other people. Doubt crept into her mind, wondering whether she could trust her device at all.

And then she saw him.

To the side of the road, almost completely hidden in the tall grass, a boy lay on his back, head turned away from her. Whether he was alive or dead, Isabelle couldn't tell, but with a sigh of relief, the girl realized that she _could_ put her faith in the collar detector and began to walk off. However, her eyes drifted back to the boy, and she stopped, biting her lip.

There was no real reason to investigate, after all, the boy was most likely dead already, but Isabelle felt that there was no harm in getting a little closer. She could see his duffel bag, so at the very least she could stock up on some supplies, and maybe his weapon was still there too. Then again, the boy could still be alive, and the whole thing could be a trap. However, Isabelle seriously doubted that anyone would attempt to hide himself by the side of the road if he was indeed looking for victims to kill.

It didn't look like he was breathing, so Isabelle ignored the pit in her stomach and took a few steps toward him. Glancing to the side, the girl noticed a thick limb lying in the brush. She reached down and picked it up, feeling the sturdy weight in her hands.

_Just in case._

She approached him, until she was standing about a foot away. He looked familiar, and just as the memory clicked, his eyes opened. She shrieked, jumping back and away from him, just as Spencer (Boy #8) quickly climbed to his feet.

"Calm down," he said holding out a hand, "I'm not playing! I'm not playing!"

Isabelle grit her teeth as she stared at the boy, the image of an Asian woman flashing into her mind.

"Please," he said, "I was just taking a quick nap. I'm not going to hurt you."

Isabelle's hands gripped the branch tighter, as tears suddenly formed in her eyes. Spencer watched her, his hand lowering to the side. They stood there for a minute, Isabelle's breaths slowly becoming louder and louder.

"You don't have to be scared," Spencer said, "All I have are these playing cards. They're my only weapons. See?"

He pulled the deck from his side pocket, holding it out to Isabelle like he was offering her an olive branch. His figure swam in front of Isabelle's eyes as tears welled up, and she blinked them away. The device made a noise from its spot in her pocket, and Spencer's eyes flew to it briefly before they returned to Isabelle's face.

"Please," he said, "Put down the stick."

"Ms. Kishimoto," Isabelle said, those words being the first she had spoken to him. The boy's eyes widened and he took a step back. He shook his head back and forth as his mouth hung open. He slid the deck back into his pocket and tightened both hands into fists.

"No, I didn't do that," Spencer said.

"You _killed_ her," Isabelle said, her voice a venomous hiss.

"No!" Spencer said, his voice suddenly getting very loud, "I _loved_ her!"

"LIAR!" Isabelle said, rushing forward and swinging the branch at his head. The boy jumped back, the blow barely missing him. The girl released a cry of pure fury and raised the branch high again. Spencer's eyes widened in terror, and he spun around, fleeing for his life. The initial reaction was to follow him, but inside Isabelle's mind, the image of Ms. Kishimoto once again returned to her. The Asian woman was smiling at her, almond shaped eyes wide with compassion.

"_There's something very special about you, Isabelle."_

Even inside her own mind, the words pierced the girl's heart. A dull ache erupted in her chest, and Isabelle squatted down, the branch falling from her hands. The tears flowed down her face, but through them, Isabelle could still see Spencer sprinting away from her, cutting through the brush and heading straight for the village.

_I could have killed him._

The words stuck out in the flurry of thoughts racing around inside her head. In that brief moment when she had swung the stick, she had wanted to crack the boy's head wide open. That realization made the girl literally tremble in fear, but the rage wouldn't subside, and the image of Ms. Kishimoto didn't fade away either. A part of her called out for vengeance, thirsted for Spencer's blood. A knot formed inside her gut and Isabelle wrapped her arms around her stomach, trying to wish the discomfort away. She felt the urge to vomit, but the wave of nausea passed moments later.

_Spencer murdered her – he deserves to die more than anyone else in The Program!_

But the distinction between wishing death on someone and actually killing them was very large. She could track Spencer effortlessly with her collar detector, but would she want to? Could she follow him around the playing field, trace him to an exact location, and murder him in cold blood? Did she have that inside her? Isabelle was scared of what the answer might be.

She took a few deep breaths, watching Spencer finally reach the edge of the town and disappear amongst the poorly made structures. Her hands hung loosely at her sides as her jaw clenched and then released, over and over again. Isabelle wasn't sure which way to head – back on the road toward the ocean, or into the village to follow Spencer. The first step would be her hardest, but it would set the stage for her actions to follow.

Find Dwayne or take revenge?

The girl reached over and picked up the stick, feeling the weight of it in both hands. The tears had stopped flowing, and her face felt like it was burning. Inside her mind, two smiling faces swam side by side – Ms. Kishimoto and Dwayne. Neither of them spoke, but both had requirements – both _needed_ something from Isabelle. Help or revenge – which was the right path to take?

_I'm sorry Ms. Kishimoto,_ Isabelle whispered to the image inside her mind, _Dwayne needs me more right now._

Ignoring the guilt that had settled in her chest, the girl spun around and jogged back to the dirt road. Isabelle's mind cried out for revenge for the teacher who had been so important to her; her thoughts pleaded for justice for the woman who had been coldly murdered and whose killer was still able to walk away free of charge.

But that sick feeling was still weighing inside Isabelle's chest – the one she had noticed when she realized that she had wanted to murder Spencer. She had almost done just that – she had almost killed him. But that had been a reaction, more of an impulse than anything else. With her common sense back in control, the girl knew that she didn't want to kill _anyone_, not even the person who she felt deserved it the most. She could feel it deep inside her chest – she simply did not want to end someone else's life. If she wanted to live, though, at some point she would need to. At that moment, however, the girl was not ready to play. But above everything else, Isabelle felt Dwayne's absence more than ever at that point, and she hoped to find him soon, if only to have someone that she could trust.

_Don't forget._

"_I **loved** her!"_

The words echoed inside Isabelle's head as she set off, the branch weighing heavily in one of her hands.

"Liar," Isabelle quietly repeated out loud.

-B-A-T-T-L-E-

"Can we talk for a minute?" Jacob (Boy #13) said, his hands shoved deep inside his pockets. Bridget (Girl #19) glanced up from the file in her hands, and nodded, placing the papers off to the side. She stretched out her legs and her neck, and tried to do the same with her arms, but the handcuffs still prevented her from moving around too much. She rose to her feet, and Jacob noticed the wet stains under each armpit. It was warm inside the town hall building – all the windows were closed, which thwarted any cool breezes from entering, and the heat was rising inside the stronghold, as if it were a greenhouse. It was cooler up on the second floor, where it was safe to have the windows open, but David (Boy #3) and Heather (Girl #3) were up there chatting, and Jacob didn't want to intrude.

"I want to…" he paused, taking a deep breath, "apologize. For earlier. I shouldn't have grabbed you like that."

"It's fine," Bridget said with a soft grin, "You heard a scream, it was only natural to assume-"

"No," Jacob said, cutting her off with a serious look, "It's never okay for a man to hurt a lady like that."

There was a moment of silence, but Bridget's smile grew warmer as she said, "It's okay, I'm not a lady."

"You know what I mean," Jacob said, his face softening slightly. Bridget nodded.

"Thank you," she said, "Apology accepted."

"Good," Jacob said, removing his hands from his pockets, "because I have a present for you."

From one of his hands, a small metal key dangled in the air between them. It took Bridget a moment, but her eyes suddenly widened. The sun shone off the metal object, creating a small shimmer on the wooden wall that danced back and forth from the swaying key. Jacob stepped forward, taking hold of Bridget's wrists. He slid the key into the handcuffs and with a quick twist, one shackle opened wide. A few seconds later, the other mimicked it. Bridget rubbed the sore spots on her wrists with her hands, watching Jacob slide the handcuffs into his back pocket.

"Are you sure about this?" she said, reaching up to stretch her shoulders and arms.

"Heather tells me that it's overdue," Jacob said, "I'm not going to stand here and lie to you and say that I completely trust you now. But you've proven yourself to be trustworthy enough. You've been essential to enacting Heather's plan of making this place a sanctuary. And it's time you stopped feeling like a prisoner, and more like a member of our Gathering."

Bridget nodded, trying to work out the kinks in the muscles she hadn't been able to move in the last couple of hours.

"Are you freeing me more out of guilt or trust?" the girl said, resuming her seated position surrounded by the contestant files.

"A little of both probably," Jacob said with a shrug, "Does it matter?"

"Not really," Bridget said with a shrug of her own and a long, relaxing exhale. Jacob thought their conversation was over, and was slightly surprised when Bridget began speaking again.

"Are they both upstairs still?"

Jacob nodded and then said, "Yeah, ever since Heather found out that her boyfriend was cheating, she's obviously been very upset. The only one who can really relate to her in terms of romance troubles is David, and his crush on Alexa (Girl #22)."

"Makes sense," Bridget said in reply, "Their situations aren't particularly similar, but they both have had their hearts broken. Talking will bring them together, probably. Maybe heal some wounds."

"A step in the right direction at the very least," Jacob said in agreement. There was another moment of silence, and this time, Jacob was the one to break it.

"What do you think will happen if Evan (Boy #24) comes to our door?" Jacob said. Bridget glanced up from her documents to meet Jacob's eye. She bit her lip, staring off to the side in thought.

"The same rules will apply to him," Jacob said.

"Obviously," Bridget said, "But Heather won't vouch for him anymore, I think."

It was their first requirement in order for a contestant to join The Gathering. It made things a little biased against students that weren't easily recognized or well known, but it prevented the uncertainty of bringing in a newcomer that was unknown to everyone. A little unfair, but necessary for safety reasons, and Jacob had felt that security overrode fairness. Also, if things went horribly wrong, then the person who vouched would be forced to leave The Gathering, since their judgment could no longer be trusted – that rule had been Bridget's, and Jacob had liked it immediately; it prevented people from thinking just with their hearts and more with their heads.

"Then he won't even make it to the weapon question," Jacob said.

The weapon question was, perhaps, the most important query in order to join The Gathering. The contestant would be asked to identify their designated weapon, any other weapons in their position, and where they procured said weapons. A lie regarding weaponry could only mean that the student was up to no good, and was therefore a threat looking to gain access to the other contestants.

Liars could only be dealt with in one way: death.

Heather had adamantly disagreed with that rule, but was outvoted by the other three. Even Jacob and David, both of whom had decided early on that they didn't want to kill anyone under _any_ circumstances, saw the necessity of such a harsh punishment. There was no other way to keep everyone else in The Gathering safe. If threats were simply allowed to leave unharmed, then they would simply return, again and again, until they managed to pull off a successful attack against The Gathering – by breaking down the door or attacking from the glass windows. Jacob prayed with all his heart that it wouldn't come down to killing another contestant – since he knew the responsibility would undoubtedly fall on his shoulders. But for the protection of himself and the others, he would do what needed to be done, or at least, he hoped he could.

"By the way, how are those files coming along?" Jacob said, "Looks like you still have plenty to read."

Bridget nodded with a sigh, "I want to make sure I'm taking in as much information as I can, and that means that I have to read slowly, and re-read even slower."

"It's important though," Jacob said, placing a hand on the girl's shoulder, "You're our final test."

Provided that a student was vouched for and passed the weapons test (as best as it could be determined), then the final say would rest on Bridget's knowledge from the files and her past experiences at the College Crowd's Frat Nights. It was a lot of responsibility to place in the girl's hands, and Jacob, in particular, had been wary of giving the girl so much power in allowing other students inside. However, to compensate for it, Bridget had come up with a similar balance system. If Bridget allowed access to anyone who turned out to be a threat, then she would be put to death.

Immediately.

No one had particularly supported her idea, but Bridget had pushed for it. Everything needed to even out, in her opinion, and if everyone's fate was placed in her hands, then her fate would be placed in The Gathering. Jacob couldn't comprehend how anyone would offer herself up as such a sacrificial lamb, but in all honesty he was impressed with the girl's courage, her determination, and her confidence in keeping The Gathering a sanctuary. Somewhere deep inside himself, Jacob wondered if he would be able to justify Bridget's murder for making a simple mistake, but he wasn't about to argue with her. If she wanted to do it, then who was he to stop her? It was, after all, _her_ funeral. Still, depending on the circumstance, Jacob could definitely see himself defending Bridget if things went awry. It all came down to how The Program would play out.

Jacob removed his hand from Bridget's shoulder and took a few steps away from her, when Bridget's voice broke the air between them.

"There's something I want to give you too," Bridget said, rising to her feet. She held a file in her hands, and she extended it out towards him. Jacob glanced at it, and then back up to her face. The girl looked almost apologetic, as she offered him the file.

"Did you read the whole thing?" he said, gently taking hold of the folder.

"No," Bridget said, shaking her head, "I stopped after the first few lines. Since you had been so gracious to me, it was only fair that I…" She trailed off, letting silence settle over the two of them. Jacob opened the file and was not surprised to see his own name listed at the top.

"I hope you realize that you have nothing to be embarrassed about," Bridget said softly, "There are many kids who come from abusive households. And it made sense why you were so upset about grabbing me…" Again Bridget let her sentence drift into nothingness. Jacob let his eyes fall to the floor, but he made no effort to leave the conversation. He wasn't exactly sure why he was letting it continue, both he and Bridget were obviously uncomfortable with the whole thing, and yet, there was some relief in there being someone else who knew, even if that someone was a person Jacob barely knew at all.

"I don't presume to know anything about you or your family," Bridget said, slowly settling back to the floor, "But from what I've read, you and your father are nothing alike, and you should have no fears about becoming the man that he is. It simply isn't possible."

Jacob finally mustered a nod, and spun around, heading for a distant place to calm himself. Bridget's words had been kind and considerate, and those attributes were only heightened since the girl hadn't been obligated to talk to Jacob at all. A piece of the boy yelled inside his mind, angry that Bridget had addressed one of Jacob's deepest fears without hesitation, and cried out that Bridget was _dangerous_, but all the boy could feel were the rough papers clutched in his hands, and the beating of his heart inside his chest, and the burning rivers of tears that were slowly falling from his eyes.

_But you're wrong, Bridget,_ Jacob thought, _my dad and I are exactly the same._

The boy released a hiss through clenched teeth and hugged his personnel file lose to his chest.

_No, we're not the same. I'm **worse**._

-R-O-Y-A-L-E-

Noah (Boy #18) watched the seconds tick away on his pocket watch. It was already past nine in the morning, and that meant that zone 21 had become a danger zone, but for some reason, Noah couldn't shake the feeling that he was in that particular square, and there was a delay, and that once the area activated, he'd find himself without a head. There was some comfort in that thought, an end to his fear, his panic, his pain. Noah had never considered himself prone to suicide, but he would be lying if he said that death didn't seem the slightest bit inviting.

If Mike D (Boy #9) were still alive, things would have been different. But that was not the case. Mike D had been killed first – a bullet forced through his face and out the back of his head. Miss Smith had said that after a day, half of the students would wish to trade places. Noah could already rationalize the allure of death, since he seemed to only be prolonging it. And if dying meant that Noah could once again be reunited with his boyfriend…

The boy shook his head. Nothing was ever that simple. As tempting as suicide might seem, the desire to keep living was strong. And if someone wanted to claim Noah's life, they were going to have to rip it from him while he fought, kicking and screaming. Maybe if he had a gun, maybe then he could find the force needed to end his own life. But with nothing but a simple dinner fork, Noah had very few options.

He stood up, brushing some specks of dirt from his clothing. Sleep had overwhelmed him, and upon awakening, the boy had felt refreshed. The terror had returned almost instantly, but the fatigue that had gnawed at him receded, and Noah felt that, if he needed to sprint away from a threat, he'd be able to. He stretched both arms up, feeling his muscles tighten and then loosen, and he released a soft groan upon flexing his shoulders and back. His eyes settled on the fork that lay just off to the side, and then over to his duffel bag. He walked over and drank some water, removing the dryness from his mouth.

_So, what do I do now?_

The question was not an easy one. His first thought had been to find some allies, but the best candidates were the other FLAs, all of which had just been informed that Noah was gay. And while he didn't want to assume that his orientation would influence them in any way, he wasn't going to rule it out either. But who did that leave him with? If not for his so-called friends, then with whom could Noah find sanctuary?

He sighed, feeling a sense of hopelessness settle over his body. He couldn't simply walk up to a random student and ask them for help – his reputation as a FLA preceded him – no one would trust him at face value. He suspected that many would attack him on sight, just because of his affiliation with his group.

The idea of the group brought up other questions for Noah. Were the rest of them all together? Were they looking for him? Noah wanted to believe that his friends were out there, searching for him, hoping to complete what remained of their group, looking for a way out.

A way out…

It was something that Noah had avoided mulling over – it was simply too much to consider. If escape was even contemplated, then false hope was born, and when it was dispelled by an analytical brain, what remained was even more despair than had originally existed. But in that moment, inside the tiny shanty, Noah allowed himself that brief glimmer of possibility.

If escape were an option, then the FLAs would find it. They were the smartest kids in their entire school, and combined, they were definitely a force to be reckoned with. Noah wasn't sure what was going on out there in the playing field, but it was probably in the FLAs' best interest to come together and think things through.

Noah pushed escape into the back of his mind. While it was the driving force behind his thoughts, he knew he could use the idea of escaping to his advantage. It was an alluring distraction – one he could use to collect the remaining FLAs and keep them close. He doubted that anyone would give his relationship with Mike D a second thought if escaping the playing field were implanted in their minds. And who knew – perhaps it _was_ possible. Maybe, just maybe, the FLAs could leave The Program together.

Alive.

Noah shook his head slightly, his curly black hair falling onto his forehead. The boy pushed it aside and took a deep breath, although the hope continued to glimmer inside his green eyes. His gaze fell on the door, the one that he had been terrified of for the last couple of hours. The door represented The Program, and opening it would once again allow all the pain and panic to reach for Noah's throat. However, he knew that he couldn't do anything alone. He needed allies.

He needed his _friends_.

The boy grabbed his fork and duffel bag, slinging it over his shoulder. And quickly, before he could second-guess his decision, Noah swung the door open and stepped back into The Program.

The first thing that hit him was the heat. It had been cooler inside the shack, where no sunlight could reach his skin. The sun was the second thing to make Noah take a step back. His eyes reacted to the sudden glare, and he raised a hand to block the sudden light. Once Noah's eyes adjusted, he glanced around himself, taking in the whole of his surroundings. He took a few breaths, calming himself down slightly. He had reentered the game, and he hadn't been immediately struck down.

It was a good start.

It took a moment for the sound to register, and that was due to the fact that it had started low, quietly blending in with the background noise of his surroundings. But as it grew louder, Noah noticed it, and before he could respond to the screams from his brain to get back inside the shack, the footsteps silenced as she appeared in front of him.

Their eyes locked, his mouth dropping open slightly. She bent over, breathing heavily, her hair hanging low over her face. But between the locks of hair, her eyes stared into his own, unblinking. Noah didn't make a move, he simply waited for her to respond, and it appeared that she was doing the exact same thing.

"How are you doing?" Noah asked, trying to pull his mouth into a grin, but the whole act felt unnatural. She didn't respond, instead glancing down at his hand, and the shiny fork that was clutched in his fist. Noah followed her gaze, but he held on tight, not wanting to release his only means of defense, even if it was a crappy weapon. There was something in one of her hands too, most likely her own weapon, but Noah didn't recognize it on sight. Silence settled over the two of them, as the pit in his stomach grew larger and heavier.

"This is ridiculous," Noah said, watching as the girl straightened upright. "How long are we going to just stand here, waiting to see if the other attacks?"

"I'm not taking any more chances," Kristy (Girl #6) replied, taking a longer breath after speaking.

"You already ran into someone," Noah said, "A FLA that's _playing_?"

She nodded twice, very slowly. Noah saw the fear in her eyes, could sense the ache of betrayal radiating from her body. A friend of theirs had attacked Kristy, had probably meant to kill her. The realization hit Noah like a solid punch to the jaw, and he stumbled back a few steps.

"Who is it?"

She paused for a second, like she was unsure of what was happening. "Jillian (Girl #18)," Kristy said, and then her body shook like a chill was racing through it. Noah stood there, dumbstruck. Jillian? _Jillian?_ How could something like that happen? Out of all the FLAs, Jillian was the one Noah trusted the most. She always thought things through, and always had a plan or an ingenious idea to come out on top. This was Jillian's answer to The Program? _To play?_

Noah didn't want to believe it, he wanted to march right up to Kristy and call her a liar, and to tell her to get bent – that Jillian would _never_ resort to engaging in The Program. But something about the way she stood, the expression on her face, the way her voice shook very slightly at the end of her statements – Noah knew she wasn't lying. Something had happened, and Kristy believed with all her being that Jillian had tried to kill her. The boy still had his doubts, but at the very least, he knew that Kristy wasn't playing games with him. She was being honest.

"I'm sorry," Noah said, and Kristy shook her head in reply, as if to imply that it wasn't his fault. Which it wasn't, but still Noah wanted to let her know he was sorry that she was scared, that he was sorry for what Jillian had done to her. It was then that his thoughts returned to him. Kristy wasn't his first choice of the other FLAs, but she was one, just like he was. And if he was going to accumulate allies, he wasn't going to be picky.

"Not all of us are going to play, Kristy," Noah said, holding open his free hand. It was a subtle gesture, but one that made Kristy step backwards, while at the same time her hard expression softened.

"I know," she said, although she didn't say anything else after that.

_Time for my trump card._

"What would you say if I wanted to escape?" Noah said, almost nonchalantly.

Her head snapped up, her eyes widening considerably. Her mouth opened slightly, and both hands clasped each other, while her weapon rested harmlessly in between them. Noah could tell from her expression that he was not the only one hoping to leave the playing field.

"You have a plan?" Kristy said, her voice barely a whisper.

"Not yet," Noah said, and then was quick to add, "I can't do this alone. If there is a way to escape, we need all of us. We need the FLAs."

Kristy's expression diminished slightly, and she gazed off to the side. Noah knew that he'd raised her hopes and let her fall back down, but he was hoping that the high was enough for Kristy to join him, sufficient to draw her in and keep her close.

"We can't have all the FLAs," she said, "Jillian is playing and Mike D is…" She trailed off. She looked back to Noah and there must have been some pain present in his face because she took a quick breath before apologizing. Noah smiled weakly, but the mention of the name had been enough of a reminder of Mike D's absence.

"I want to help you with any ideas you have," Kristy said with some conviction, "But I need to find Raymond (Boy #11) first. I can't think about escaping without him with me."

Noah nodded, and hoped that his annoyance wasn't conveyed on his face. Personally, he had nothing against Raymond. But Noah had been rooting for his boyfriend to claim the class presidency, and just like everyone else was aware, Kristy had won because of Raymond's work of getting the underlings of the school involved. It was ridiculous for Noah to still consider it a grudge, especially now that class presidency was utterly insignificant. But after that whole fiasco, Noah felt like he had a better understanding of what Mike D and Jillian were always complaining about. The boy had never said a word when the two of them would rant together about how inappropriate it was for Kristy to date a drug addict like Raymond, how it brought the integrity of the whole group down. In fact, Noah felt that such discussions were a little too close to the kinds of things he hoped would not happen if he and Mike D ever went public about their relationship. But after all of Mike D's hard work, for him to lose the seat of class president because Raymond had dragged all his stoned pals to the voting booths…it felt unfair.

And Noah, though a little ashamed of his reaction, still felt indignant toward Raymond.

"Of course," Noah said, "I understand."

"Okay, good," Kristy said with a smile.

"Let's set up a place for you two to find the rest of us," Noah said, "Once you find him, we can all rendezvous there."

Kristy's grin faltered for only a moment, but it wasn't missed by either FLA. She opened her mouth to say something, but instead closed it, nodding in agreement. Noah pulled out his map, and pointed to the lighthouse in square 64. Kristy approached to get a better look.

"I doubt anyone will travel all the way down there," Noah said, "So that can be our spot. Find Raymond and then meet the rest of us at the lighthouse, sound good?"

"Sure," Kristy said. Noah expected the girl to ask what would happen if that area became a danger zone, but she didn't, and for some reason, Noah didn't bother bringing it up either. Somehow, neither FLA seemed too concerned about the lighthouse, as if they both knew that there would be no meeting there at all.

What are you doing? You're letting her go off alone because you don't like her boyfriend?

It's more than that, Noah wanted to reply, but try as he might, he couldn't see any other reason. He had been more than willing to join forces before Raymond had come into the picture, but that had all changed, almost instantly. Was it just because Mike D had been so against Raymond, or was it because Noah couldn't fathom the idea of Mike D dying while someone like Raymond could be given a chance at escape, at freedom? The pit inside his stomach had returned with a vengeance, and Noah felt the beginnings of tears forming behind his eyes. He was sure that if someone asked him why he was about to cry, Noah would not be able to give an answer, although deep down, he was sure he knew exactly what it was.

She wrapped him in a hug, so sudden that it actually caused Noah to gasp. Her body was warm, probably from the running she had done and the effects of the sun against her flesh. Noah felt his arms reach up and the embrace was returned, and for an instant, he couldn't sense the absence from Mike D's death, at least, not so pronouncedly.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, and Noah knew what she meant. She was sorry that Mike D was dead, sorry that Noah hadn't felt safe enough to share the truth about his orientation with her. But she was also sorry that Noah didn't like Raymond, and that her boyfriend was more important to her than Noah was. She was sorry that the class presidency had come between them, and that The Program had come to claim them.

She was sorry for everything.

He knew it then, knew that it would be a mistake to let Kristy venture of on her own. She had responded to him in the way that Noah had always hoped all his friends would. She accepted him immediately, trusted him, and knew that being gay was no physical or mental handicap – that he was still _Noah_ after all was said and done.

She released him from the embrace and raced off, heading in the same direction she had been going when the two had met. He tried to call after her, but his voice caught in his throat. He coughed twice as her figure continued into the distance. His mind yelled at him, told him to scream out, to beg her to come back, but the lingering memory of his boyfriend emerged from Noah's thoughts, and so the boy said nothing as Kristy dashed off to the side and vanished from his view.

What have you done?

Despite Noah's attempts to justify himself, saying that he didn't need her, saying that she and Raymond would only slow them all down, saying that there were smarter and tougher FLAs out there, the boy could not answer his own question. The tears came in full force, and Noah refused to move from that spot until his either his tears dried up or Kristy returned.

Whichever one would come first.

-B-A-T-T-L-E-

He was following her.

She could feel it, deep inside her chest. She couldn't hear him and she couldn't see him, but all the same she _knew_ it – that he was stalking her, waiting for her to stop running.

And then he'd strike.

But Dawn (Girl #5) wouldn't let that happen. She'd run in circles forever if she needed to, if only to avoid her pursuer. At that moment, the girl was running through the forest, although she had no real idea where she was. She'd left her duffel bag behind hours ago, and with it, the only map at her disposal. Dawn had wandered through the town for a little while, but the shacks had been nothing but a big temptation. She knew that if she stopped to rest inside one, if she tried to hide, that he would find her, and so she'd tried to disappear amongst the trees, but it hadn't done any good. She could feel him closing in on her, and Dawn knew it was only a matter of time before she was caught.

A low branch clawed at her face, and the girl whimpered as she shielded her eyes. It felt like the whole forest was closing in on her, and Dawn didn't know where else to run. No matter where she had gone she could always feel him chasing her, and her hiding places were never good enough – she knew he would find her.

Another low limb stretched to scoop out Dawn's eyes, and she raised an arm in defense. With her vision blocked, however, the girl didn't see the root protruding up from the ground, and she pitched forward, pain striking all over her body. She took a second to catch her breath, and then tried to stand, but she found herself unable.

_Hurry!_ _He's coming!_

No matter how her mind screamed, the girl couldn't bring herself to her feet. She was lost and tired and thirsty and her body didn't want to respond any longer. Through her gasps for air, Dawn listened for his approach, but she couldn't hear the slightest indication that anyone else was nearby. She glanced all around her, but since the sun was high in the sky, nothing was able to escape her gaze, and Dawn didn't notice any movement whatsoever. Was she wrong? She took a few deep breaths and allowed her body to relax, letting the fear seep from her every pore. She brought her shirt up to her face to wipe the sweat from her forehead, and then stood, wiping the dirt that clung to the dried blood on the inside of her thighs. She was still naked from the waist down, but that thought hadn't crossed Dawn's mind in the slightest. Her only concern had been to run, and she had managed to do it. So even though her body still whined from fatigue, she needed water more than rest.

She turned around, and came face to face with him.

"_So I finally caught you,"_ Oliver (Boy #16) said. Dawn shrieked, and collapsed to the ground, crawling away from the boy. He was still completely nude, and his body was an unnatural pale color. Eyes that had once sparkled with life were clouded over, a pale afterimage. The only color that seemed to emanate from the boy was the traces of blood that clung to his face. Dawn could see the claw marks she had left, but there was a good deal more blood from the gaping hole in his temple.

"No," Dawn managed to squeak out.

"_What did you think, Dawn?_" Oliver said, taking a step toward her, _"That I'd let you do __**this**__ to me and get away with it?"_ The boy pointed to the damage done to his face with a quick scowl, but the expression melted into a grin that made Dawn feel even sicker.

"Miss Smith said you're dead," Dawn said out loud, "How can you be here if you're dead?" The girl wrapped her arms around her body and pulled her legs in close. Her breathing came in quicker gasps, but she didn't remove her gaze from Oliver, not even for a moment.

"_That's right,_" he said, _"I'm dead because __**you**__ killed me."_

His grin was gone, and the cloudy eyes refused to blink, tearing away at her barriers before Dawn could put more up.

"No, that was an accident," Dawn said quietly.

"_An **accident**?"_

"I asked you to stop…pleaded you…" Dawn said, her voice barely above a whisper, "You were hurting me…_raping_ me…"

"_I seem to remember you agreeing to my proposition,"_ Oliver said, _"That doesn't sound like a rape to me."_

"You wouldn't stop," Dawn said, her eyes watering over with tears.

"_So, was it all an act? Did you plan to kill me from the very beginning?"_

"NO!" Dawn said, jumping to her feet, wiping the tears from her eyes, "This wasn't how it was supposed to be! We were supposed to be there for each other, protect each other, and survive as long as we could – together."

"_The way I see it,"_ Oliver said, moving very close to Dawn, _"is that you agreed to have sex with me."_ He leaned down into her face, forcing Dawn to glance down at the ground in terror. _"And now I'm dead."_

"I said it wasn't like that," Dawn said, hearing the tremor in her own voice.

"Prove it."

Dawn glanced up in surprise, and noticed that Oliver had moved a few feet away from her again, his arms crossed over his bare chest. The patches of sunlight that settled on his bare skin caused his flesh to appear even paler, and his eyes only seemed to become murkier, his pupils hidden deeper and deeper under shades of white. His whole body was a stark contrast to the congealing blood on the side of his face, which had darkened and crusted during the course of their brief conversation.

"Prove to me that you were truly interested in having sex, and I'll understand that it was all an accident."

He smiled, but the gesture only made Dawn feel uneasy.

"And I'll forgive you."

"How do I do that?" Dawn said.

"_It's easy,"_ he said in reply, _"Have sex with somebody else. If you kill them too, then I'll know that you did planned my murder from the start."_

Her stomach cramped, and the girl felt her legs wobble. The painful memory returned to her – the jabbing pain, the taste of dirt in her mouth, the blood – it all came back. Oliver wanted her to go through that whole experience _again_? Her first time was bad enough, but to let someone else hurt her, debase her? The whole idea seemed a little flawed in its logic, but Dawn wasn't exactly sure how. And the notion that Dawn owed something to Oliver – that she had been in the wrong – caused the anger to flare up inside her chest.

"If you don't kill them, then I'll forgive you."

"Forgive _me_?" Dawn hissed through clenched teeth. She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her fists. "You should be begging _me_ for forgiveness! After all the pain you put me through, for continuing to _fuck_ me when I asked you to stop, for slapping me in the face, for everything…and when I defend myself against you, you say that I have to earn _your_ forgiveness?"

Dawn continued to keep her eyes closed, and felt a dull throbbing inside her head. Her knees continued to shake, but the girl kept standing, hearing nothing but the soft whisper of wind through the trees.

"You're dead!" Dawn said, her voice rising to a scream, "You're not even _real_!"

The girl opened her eyes wide, and stared at the empty space around her. There was no noise that could be detected, and the warm sun shone on her face, pushing away the chills that raced through her body. She glanced to either side and then behind her, but the only objects she saw were the limbs and leaves of the nearby trees. The girl was completely alone in the woods.

She took a long breath, and felt a soft smile emerge on her face for the first time in hours.

"_Prove it,"_ Oliver whispered, his face inches from her ear. The girl spun with a loud gasp, her legs giving way, and she collapsed to the ground. She stared up at him, his skin an even duller grey. Dawn tried to scream, but no sound escaped her throat.

He leaned over, putting his face less than an inch away from hers.

"PROVE IT!"

And she was back on her feet, running, tripping, stumbling, crying. Doing all she could to escape from him, and the two words that continued to echo behind her as the boy gave chase. She placed her hands over her ears as she sprinted, but nothing would block the sounds out of her head.

"PROVE IT! PROVE IT! PROVE IT!"

Current Danger Zones: 20, 21, 28

Pending Danger Zones: 33

(41) Contestants Remaining


	14. Discontinued

It had started with just some simple chills. Lance (Boy #25) had felt the chills before, when it had been too long since his last fix – they were his body's way of telling him that it was time to refuel, that he was getting close to crashing. And the last thing the boy wanted to do was hit his low. Not at that moment, not when his imminent doom was staring at him so blatantly in the face.

He took a deep breath and allowed his legs to give out from beneath him. The sun beat down on him, and the sweat that trickled down his body told him that he was warm – probably overheating – but the cold chills swept through his body, and he shivered. The road circling the village had been good at keeping the boy occupied, at least for a little while, but his cravings were getting stronger, and desperation had begun to sink in.

If he still had his personal belongings, things would be different. He'd use up the rest of his heroin and leave the playing field in the pure bliss that swam through his consciousness when he was high. The boy sighed, recalling the utter contentment that he was lacking, the happy escape that had become routine – a necessary practice to help him survive the day.

A wave of nausea rolled over Lance and he turned to the side, throwing up the little contents that remained in his stomach. The bile tasted sour, and he could feel the stomach acid stinging inside his nostrils. He knew that he should try to replenish his system, but the nausea prevented the boy from putting any nutrients inside his body.

His head swam as a gentle breeze wafted by his figure. To anyone else, the soft caress of wind would have been welcome, but to Lance it triggered the chills to commence once again. He could see the village in the distance, not too far away. He was resting in the high grass between the road and the town, somewhere on the western side of the village. Or maybe he was on the eastern side? Lance wasn't exactly sure. All he knew was that he needed some Dust, and that he had none.

Raymond (Boy #11) owed Lance some drugs, didn't he? If he could find Raymond, Lance would take some from him.

_No, Raymond's not using anymore. He stopped…a month or two before he starting seeing that FLA girl, right?_

Lance pushed himself to his feet. He swayed for a moment, goosebumps rising all over his skin from the ice that raced through his veins. The urge to vomit returned, but there wasn't anything for Lance to remove from his system, and so the impulse passed, unsatisfied. His messy hair was matted down against the back of his neck, as well as pasted to his acne-laden forehead. Lance brought up his shirt and wiped the moisture away, hoping that removing the sweat from his face would allow the boy to warm up and chase away the chills.

_If Raymond's not using anymore, then I'm sure he won't mind giving me what is left of his stash._

The thought of having Raymond's supply made Lance smile drunkenly to himself. Raymond always knew how to get the best stuff, and he never minded sharing it either. The guy didn't like to use by himself – called himself a "social junkie". That always made Lance laugh, that Raymond wanted to escape from reality only when there was someone else around. He liked to have company when he traveled in his drug haze – when he was, ultimately, alone.

But somewhere inside Lance's brain, a vague memory appeared of Raymond handing over to Lance the box that contained his stash. Lance nodded to himself, sensing the nausea threatening to return with such intense head movement.

"That's right," he said softly to himself, "Raymond already gave me his stuff when he decided to quit."

The boy swayed dangerously on his feet and his stomach did flip-flops inside his gut. The world spun as the Lance's eyes rolled upwards into his head for just a moment before they focused once again on the village. He unzipped his bag and pulled out the two ends of his weapon. They screwed into each other – creating a long, sharp pointed object.

"Lance's designated weapon is a lance," the boy said, chuckling to himself. In reality, the object was a javelin, and both ends had been sharpened to a razor-point. However the boy had decided to use the weapon in a more useful manner, and he took a few steps forward, the javelin making a fine walking stick. Whenever the boy felt his balance waver, the stick kept him on his feet. Such a long object wouldn't have fit in his duffel bag if it hadn't been halved first. Lance wasn't sure if his weapon was good or bad compared to the others, and that question had been lost as more important ones had arisen – which direction should he go? Was he going to die? Where were his drugs? Where were Raymond and Spencer (Boy #8)?

_That's right! Spencer is here too._

Spencer was usually not so keen on sharing his supply, but the boy managed to smuggle something wherever he went. If anyone in the playing field still had some drugs, it would be Spencer. _He_ was the person Lance needed to find. He'd grab some heroin from Spencer, get his mind working the way it was supposed to, and then he'd deal with The Program. But not until he had refueled.

More sweat dripped down his face, and chills made his muscles tense up. His breaths came in quicker gasps, but still the boy pushed onward. The village loomed in front of him, but Lance felt that somewhere, in one of the many shacks that stuck out of the dirt like awkward gravestones, sat his friend Spencer, who was most likely the only person that possessed the heroin Lance's body craved. Even the idea of a _potential_ drug source lifted the boy's spirits, and with the help of his javelin, Lance made his way into the town.

Step by step.

-B-A-T-T-L-E-

_Don't even think about him._

She stopped, taking a moment to breathe.

The air was thick, and only seemed to be getting heavier. Her breaths came in deeper and deeper pulls, like the simple act of inhaling had become a chore that Tonya (Girl #7) would eventually give up on. And perhaps there was more truth to that statement than the girl was prepared to consider.

The foliage surrounded her like a giant green cocoon, and if she had been prone to claustrophobia, Tonya imagined that breathing would have been even more difficult. However, if there was one thing that the girl was proficient in, it was the act of selective attention. She could ignore the trees and bushes if she really wanted to, could deafen her ears to the numerous sounds that echoed in the distance. When engrossed in a book, the rest of the world ceased to exist to Tonya, and she could shut people out of her life no other.

It was her control over her emotions that allowed the girl to act with such force. It hadn't been an easy process, and perhaps her nature wasn't as emotional as other females of the species. But she still felt them, and they were eventually wrangled into obedience. It came with the territory, she supposed. Being the daughter of a foreign diplomat had its perks, but also it drawbacks. Gigantic mansions, more servants than she could imagine, more money than she knew what to do with. But she was always on display, ever in the spotlight, and it was absolutely necessary that she react in the correct manner, regardless of the circumstances. Maybe it wouldn't be so important for her to constantly maintain composure if her father had been the ambassador to a minor country like Paraguay or Egypt.

But that had been the whole cause of her argument with Micah (Boy #7), hadn't it? That boy, so eager to despise anything to do with the government, so ready to bash anything and anyone involved. He hadn't even given her a chance to…

She took another deep breath.

Tonya couldn't lose her head over this. She didn't know why Micah hadn't waited for her outside the school (_We were released one right after another for God's sake!_) but there were other potential reasons beyond their fight. It could have been that Micah had been chased off by some threat, or that he was simply unaware that Tonya was the next contestant to enter the playing field. And despite Micah's tendency to be a little petty, Tonya didn't truly believe that he'd leave her to die alone.

Thinking about Micah brought a rush of emotion into the girl's chest, and she fought it all back with everything she could muster. Emotions would only manage to distract her, and if she planned to protect herself, the girl needed to be fluid, like water. She needed to float, move with the planet and her surroundings, and take one step at a time. Thinking about Micah would only force her to drown amongst the trees – suffocating on her fear, choking on her anxiety.

She would deal with Micah when she found him, provided that they both lived that long. But assuming that both continued to breathe, it was likely that they would run into one another at some point. After all, Tonya had already encountered three other boys – there was no reason to doubt that she would no longer be able to locate other players.

A gentle breeze wafted by, causing some locks of brown hair to fly into Tonya's field of vision. She tucked the tresses behind her ear and felt the wind caress her cheeks, her neck. There were small comforts available if one knew where to look. Other contestants would be, perhaps, distracted by the sound of the breeze rushing through the leaves to appreciate the small relief. But Tonya knew that every tiny detail had some importance, and if she refused to allow herself the slight comfort of a refreshing breeze, than all hope was already lost.

She could already feel her mind drifting back to Micah, and to divert attention away, the girl focuses on the three other contestants she had come across. Noah (Boy #18) had been first, and the fear present in those intense green eyes of his had been almost palpable. The way he clutched the fork with both hands and held it in front of him – it was a little pathetic. He'd said that he didn't want to fight, and that had been enough, although Tonya wondered if that sentiment of his would still have been true if he had possessed a better weapon.

The same could be said of another boy she had happened upon – Adonis (Boy #5) was his name if she was correct. He, too, had a poor weapon designation – a boomerang. Essentially useless, but his size and athletic ability surely made up for it. If he had wanted to attack her, Tonya doubted an inferior weapon would have prevented him from doing so. But the girl couldn't allow herself to draw conclusions about people she didn't know anything about.

Tonya didn't know many of the other students on a personal level – her proclivity of turning her attention away from peers and onto schoolwork didn't invite many friendships her way. Although some did exist, they were small in number. She couldn't afford too many friends, or else her parents would have imposed themselves to judge which of her associates were appropriate and those that she immediately cut ties with. It was just easier to pretend that she had no acquaintances at all, and to keep quiet about the few that were real. Thankfully, not one of her friends was present with Tonya in the playing field. She found some relief in that. But, instead, Micah had been chosen…

She shook her head – she was doing it again; thinking of Micah when she knew she shouldn't. Tonya turned her attention to the final remaining person she had encountered. It took her a moment to remember his name, but it finally clicked into place.

_Phil…that's his name._

Phil (Boy #23) had had two weapons. He'd said that he'd stolen one from Riley (Boy #6), but Tonya supposed he could have lied. Still, he'd had the opportunity to shoot her, and he didn't take it. She could take his claim at face value then, that he was intent on gathering the weapons from those who would play to win. It sounded noble…and utterly futile. Once that boy was killed, all the weaponry he had stocked would be at the hands of his murderer, and that person would become exceptionally dangerous. Still, Tonya didn't regret her decision about leaving the boy alone. He wasn't threatening her, and therefore, was of no consequence. Tonya had decided to only fight those who wanted to kill her, and she saw no reason to change from her stance. Why fight someone who only wanted to be left alone? She'd turn a blind eye to them, like she was so apt at doing, and only dwell on those who were focused on her in return.

She pushed some limbs out of the way and her eyes settled on a rather large tree stretching out of the ground and up into the sky. Tonya gazed up, but the top of the tree was beyond her sight, hidden by the canopy that was a perpetual ceiling in the forest area. The foliage obscured the sun, and in the shade it was several degrees cooler. Despite a lack of large gusts, the air didn't feel stagnant and overbearing.

In short, it seemed like a nice place to stop and rest.

The girl did a quick survey of the area, making sure there weren't any surprises lurking behind the trunks of nearby trees, and once she determined herself to be completely alone, she sat with her back against the massive tree, allowing her body to relax.

A wave of fatigue washed over Tonya. She hadn't managed to get very much sleep the previous night, although she had tried. And while she didn't feel tired while she was moving around, all the exhaustion had managed to catch up with her at last, and Tonya felt the urge to rest her head…and let herself….slowly…drift…off…

A soft rustling that sounded more like an explosion hit her eardrums, and the girl's eyes snapped open. A figure noisily pushed branches and limbs from its face as it appeared from the green that surrounded the area. He stopped for a moment, to take a breath, unaware of Tonya's presence. The adrenaline hit her system, and the girl was on her feet, the katana clutched tightly in her right hand. Her eyes took in the switchblade clutched in one and, and the metal shield grasped in the other. And finally, Tonya noticed the trail of blood leading down from his temple, the source of which was hidden beneath a shirt wrapped clumsily around the head.

Her mind instinctively wanted to ask questions, wanted to verify what Phil had told her against what the intruder would say. But there were more important queries that held precedence over whether or not Phil could be trusted in the future.

"My name is Tonya," she said.

"Holy shit!" Riley said, suddenly aware of the girl's existence, bringing his shield to just below his eye level and hiding the bulk of his body behind the metal barrier.

"Do you want to fight me?" Tonya said.

Riley raised an eyebrow, before glancing around at his surroundings. The girl watched, stone-faced, as the boy took in the scene. His eyes danced around the small clearing before once again settling on the girl before him.

"Sure," he said with a grin, "Why not?"

-R-O-Y-A-L-E-

Hello readers!

You're probably wondering why we've left the action and you're hearing from me, Riter544, the author of this work. Perhaps some of you saw this coming and thought it is overdue, and hopefully very few of you are angry. But I've decided to discontinue this fanfic.

My reasons are simple enough: I don't have the time or energy to finish such an intense undertaking. When I started this work, I thought I'd be able to do it, but truthfully, I've lost the flow of the story. I had a rhythm and I let it get away from me. I apologize for not finding the time to get back into this story, but as it is, it's unfair to you, the readers, who look for updates and are trying to be the audience and critics that I ask you to be.

Perhaps some day in the future, I will return to this story, but for now, I must set it aside. I hate to leave things unfinished, but I have to be willing to accept my limitations. Hopefully, it's not too much to ask the same from you.

However, it would be wrong and mean-spirited of me not to divulge all the information I have regarding the outcome of this story. I had planned a good deal of it out, and so I hope this shortened version will do my ideas justice, and will give the rest of you out there some closure.

I intend to write this in regards to each character. And since I left you all on the edge of the cliff, let's start with those characters:

**Tonya/Micah/Ahmed**: Immediately following her confrontation with Riley, there is a flashback of Tonya's life with her father, the US ambassador to Japan. She has lived there for a few years and under her father's advice, attempted to assimilate into Japanese culture by taking up a traditional Japanese activity. She chooses to study the art of the sword. Back in the game, Tonya fights fiercely, and after he is almost impaled, Riley runs off. Tonya eventually joins the Gathering, and is a silent presence until her boyfriend Micah also joins the Gathering.

It is revealed through flashback that Micah and Ahmed were once good friends, playing volleyball on an intramural team after school. However, Micah is a self-proclaimed anarchist, and hates anything to do with government (due to things like the Program). Ahmed, who has undergone some prejudice and hate crimes because of his Muslim faith (a little September 11th note is tossed in to explain why Muslims are discriminated against), attempts to distinguish himself from Muslim radicals by proclaiming his great love of America and all its forms (including government). This disagreement is what causes a falling out between the boys.

In the playing field, Ahmed (who has a revolver and has been shooting at everyone he sees in an effort to prove, once again, his love of country) comes across Micah. There is a confrontation, and due to Ahmed fumbling with the heavy revolver, Micah overtakes him, and Micah shoots Ahmed, killing him.

While dealing with the guilt of his actions, Micah joins the Gathering, and reunites with Tonya, who sheds her tough, bitchy, aggressive exterior at the sight of her boyfriend. It is learned that the argument the two had revolved around the discovery by Micah of Tonya's father being a government official. The two stay with the Gathering until it dissolves (read further for why it dissolves) and then venture out into the playing field. Both of them eventually die, most likely by Hank, although I hadn't figured that out yet.

**Riley**: Frustrated with consistent losses at every turn, Riley loses himself to rage. There is a flashback where we see Riley as a young child at a bank being robbed. His older brother is brought into a back room and raped. His mother, a devout woman, praises God for keeping both of her sons alive. In turn, Riley blames God for putting his family in harm's way, and so begins his hatred of all religion.

As to his future in the Program, Riley was running on fumes. I considered having him team up with Zeke, only to be killed by Zeke soon after. Another thought, and most likely the one I was going to use, was to have him encounter Tobias and Wyatt. Despite his superior fighting experience and adrenaline rush, two against one would determine the outcome. Tobias would end up killing Riley and keeping the weapons for himself, not giving one to Wyatt.

**Tobias/Wyatt/Adonis**: Adonis has only been hinted at up to this point, but the large, muscular Greek is the next boy that Tobias and Wyatt come across. Still reeling from Riley's murder and hesitant to attack a fellow member of the football team, Wyatt doesn't immediately leap into battle like Tobias does. There is a flashback to a College Crowd rave where the Crowd-ers discuss a schoolmate that is present who will be playing an important game the next day. The Crowd has tried to coerce this boy, to bribe him, to threaten him to lose on purpose so that they make a killing on bets. When nothing works, Tobias shoots the boy in the leg, much to horror of the other Crowd-ers.

Upon this memory, Wyatt finally joins the fight, teaming up with Adonis instead of Tobias. Together, the two football players murder Tobias. The two spend some time together in the playing field, before both are eventually taken out.

**Scott/Barbara/Adrienne/Claudia/Logan/Kiki**: As of yet, these characters are cannon fodder. I have no notes as to their personalities, habits, alliances, or descriptions. There is a chance that one or more could have developed into something more, but most likely, each was simply a one or two scene filler before they were killed. The only exception is Kiki, who possessed, as one of her two designated weapons (she is Girl #25, and so received Nina's bag in the classroom), a book detailing previous Battle Royale seasons. This is only relevant for re-introducing the Girl Number 25 Paradigm, which becomes important later in the story.

**Dawn**: Dawn continues to mentally deteriorate. With each new scene, Oliver continues to decay, and his accusations become more and more outlandish. He torments her with his disgusting appearance, and slowly Dawn begins to break down. He demands that she prove that his murder was an accident by having sex with another contestant without killing them. Dawn consistently attempts to point out the flaws in this logic, but as she loses her mind, she simply agrees. After a few instances of wordlessly prostrating herself in front of other contestants, she is finally taken advantage of by Zeke, who decides to leave her to her own demise than to waste his own time killing her. Thinking that she has done what Oliver asks, Dawn is horrified to see that he is not satisfied. In an effort to rid herself of him once and for all, Dawn throws herself from the cliffs.

**Yvonne/Layla/Kyle**: Yvonne, a Crowd-er, is walking through the woods when she is attacked by Kyle. He uses her designated weapon, to choke her. He apologizes over and over as he squeezes tighter and tighter. Yvonne is saved by Layla, a FLA, when she shoots Kyle with her shotgun.

Layla and Yvonne, despite their group differences, are both part of a Writers Group that meets after school. Other members of this group are Ahmed, Neil, Delilah, and Phil, but Layla and Yvonne discover a connection through similar writing styles and demeanors. They continue a secret friendship and help each other improve their writing.

After the two girls leave, Kyle rises, unharmed. His Kevlar vest has protected him from the shotgun blast. It is learned that Kyle is a soon-to-be father, and due to some issues with his own absent father, the boy intends to do whatever it takes to return to his pregnant girlfriend and be the father he never had. The boy continues to play, perhaps killing a few other contestants, but is eventually murdered by a more capable contender.

Layla and Yvonne join the Gathering for a time, but when they feel that friends from their respective groups are trying to force them apart, the girls leave. Despite their superior firepower (the shotgun) the girls are eventually killed.

**Joy**: After the death of her brother, Joy has taken his gun and is walking around the field in a daze. She slowly comes to terms with the boy's murder, and resolves to win the Program, if only to get revenge on Miss Smith. However, she finds it difficult to justify playing to win, and instead decides to think about it a bit longer.

She stumbles across the Gathering, and attempts to join. One of the security questions is to name all weapons currently possessed, but Joy decides it would be difficult to explain how she came across her brother's gun, and not wanting to trying describing it, as well as her malfunctioning collar, she lies about having the gun, instead thinking to explain herself once she's been accepted.

The people of the Gathering have already seen the gun, however, and since Joy lies about it, when they open the door, Joy stares down the barrel of Layla's shotgun. Jacob is the one to pull the trigger, eliminating Joy. Joy's gun is brought into the Gathering, and only Bridget finds it strange that the model type has been given to no contestants.

**Tabitha/Sabrina/Felicia/Paige/Neil**: After the hockey girls and Neil have settled into the lighthouse, Sabrina starts to get a little stir crazy. When Spencer stumbles upon the group, Felicia has a break down, accusing him of forcing himself upon her. Spencer runs off, clearly afraid of the untrue allegations tossed his way. It is revealed that Felicia was raped, and it is the cause of her sudden neediness, her broken arm, and her rapid weight gain (an attempt to make herself less attractive to avoid getting raped again).

Amidst the confusion, Sabrina steals the Uzi and runs off, deciding the best way to protect herself and her teammates is to play. It is agreed that Paige and Neil will go to retrieve Sabrina and the gun, while Tabitha stays to care for Felicia, who is still dealing with her past traumas.

Sabrina does well with the Uzi, but is eventually killed by another player. Paige and Neil, likewise, meet the same fate while out searching for Sabrina. The square containing the lighthouse is about to go danger zone, and Tabitha is having trouble moving Felicia from the building. Finally deciding that the girl won't move, Tabitha flees, leaving Felicia to die once the zone becomes active.

Tabitha joins the Gathering for a while, mourning the loss of her friends, but once the Gathering disbands, is back out in the playing field, and is eventually eliminated by another contestant.

**Lance**: Lance continues his withdrawal symptoms from heroin. He hallucinates, shivers, sweats, and screams. He is eventually found by another player and killed.

**Chase**: Chase, who hasn't been introduced yet, is a man-whore. Usually used by the College Crowd to seduce both men and women into compromising situations, the boy plans to try something similar in order to not be easy prey in the Program. Suffering from poor self esteem and a deeply confusing sexual orientation, Chase looks to sexual gratification to ease his loneliness and his intense self-loathing.

Not finding too many takers to his sexual advances and with a poor designated weapon (a box of tacks), Chase eventually is removed from the competition.

**Delilah**: Raised by a singe, bipolar mother, Delilah has always looked for some form of stability. She's acted out with piercings, tattoos, and strange hair dyes, but they are always overlooked by her mother, who is too wrapped up in her depression or wild in her manic state. Delilah uses writing to air out her frustrations and has found a camaraderie with Neil, but the two don't meet in the playing field.

Despite her lack of friends, an aggressive nature, and a decent weapon (a gravedigger's shovel), Delilah has decided early in the game not to play. There is a flashback where it is learned that Delilah's mother decided to have a child, and so found as many guys to sleep with her as she could to increase her odds of getting pregnant. Delilah's mother has no idea who Delilah's father is, but she prayed to a different god each night for a child and says that she found out she was pregnant on the night she prayed to Satan. She called Delilah her "little Anti-Christ".

Delilah, clearly disturbed by this information, worries that somewhere, deep down, her true nature is that of evil. In an effort to counteract what she fears to be true, Delilah believes that choices determine who people are and what they can become. She says that even evil people can do good things, and for that reason, refuses to play. She joins the Gathering for a time, but escapes when the group disbands. She is eventually taken out by another contestant.

**Noah**: After meeting up with Kristy, Noah wanders around the playing field for a time, until he comes across Jillian. Hesitant due to Kristy's warning, the greeting between the two is awkward, but Jillian wins Noah over and the two team up for a while. However, once Jillian realizes that Noah isn't aiding her in any way, she kills him.

**Selene**: Still unable to come to terms with Mike R's death, Selene wanders around the playing field in a daze. She comes across several threats, but is able to chase them off with her nail gun. She joins the Gathering for a while, and runs off when it dissolves. After a time, dealing with the paranoia and the loss of Mike R, Selene can't find the strength to defend herself against a threat and is killed.

**Evan**: Evan has spent most of his time in the playing field mastering the slingshot that was his designated weapon. Seeming to improve, he ventures out into the woods, searching for Heather, his girlfriend, unaware that she knows about his cheating ways with Jillian. He discovers the Gathering, but Heather refuses to allow him access, and the others respect her wishes, telling Evan to leave or he will be killed.

Feeling guilty and alone, Evan ventures off, where he eventually dies at the hands of another contestant.

**Phil**: Phil continues to do his best, stripping weapons from other contestants who are playing to win. While coming across other students, there are flashbacks of Phil's relationship with Melissa – dates that they've had, as well as their marriage in her hospital room. Melissa is the source of Phil's faith, and the only way he can justify her early death from cancer is through his religion.

Phil is successful is taking weapons from dangerous contestants, but his unwillingness to kill gets the better of him, and he is removed from the game by Lucy, who claims his arsenal of weapons.

**Jacob/David/Bridget/Heather**: The starting members of the Gathering amass a considerable collection of people during the game, one of which is Hank. They are skeptical when he comes to the door, but they agree that it is safer to have him inside and handcuffed than to have him wandering around their sanctuary.

Hank is a hospitable guest and makes to trouble initially, although he doesn't disclose the throwing knife he stole from the classroom at the start of the game. Eventually, Hank makes his move, escaping from the cuffs and knocking Jacob unconscious in the process. He doesn't outright kill anyone, but he warns them all that he will return in an hour's time and kill any who remain in the town ahll building. Hank runs off, and most of the students do as well.

David, thinking that Jacob is dead, races after Hank for revenge. He races after the boy, but is surprised when he discovers that he manages to find Hank easily. David realizes he doesn't stand a chance against Hank, but it is already too late, and Hank murders David.

Heather hovers over Jacob, trying to get him to regain consciousness. Over the course of the Program, the two have become exceptionally close, and have strong feelings of love and concern for each other.

Bridget sees her chance. It is revealed that Bridget, and not Tobias, is the leader of the College Crowd. That the girl actually uses the moronic Tobias as a front and pulls the strings from the shadows, so much so, that not even the other Crowd-ers were aware of her leadership. The girl is a powerful manipulator, and has managed to get insider information in every contestant in the playing field, thanks to Heather's contestant files.

Bridget has noticed the shiny, lacquered floors of the town hall, and using the contestant files and the flammable sheen on the wooden building, sets fire to the town hall with her lighter (part of her designated weapon, the other half was some marijuana). She leaves Heather and Jacob to burn alive on the second floor.

Bridget has all the information she needs inside her crafty brain, but with a small stature, poor athletics, and no truly dangerous weaponry, there's only so far she can go. Bridget makes it to the final four, but no further.

**Isabelle/Spencer**: It is revealed that Isabelle idolized her teacher Miss Kishimoto, because the Japanese woman treated the girl as an individual, and not simply another member of Isabelle's giant family. When Miss Kishimoto is violently murdered, Isabelle takes it very hard, and when forensics finds Spencer's sperm inside the woman, people assume he is the killer.

Spencer claims (and is telling the truth) that he and Miss Kishimoto were in a relationship, and very much in love. He admits to having sex with her on the day she was killed, but that he didn't kill her – that he is innocent, and even more, that he was deeply in love with Miss Kishimoto.

In reality, Miss Kishimoto's murderer is Maya (this is what she meant from her early scene when she admits to Hank that Spencer is innocent). Maya kills Miss Kishimoto for some obscure, unnecessary reason, but it is Spencer who has all the blame, although he isn't convicted of the crime.

In Isabelle's mind, Spencer is the obvious killer, and the next time the two stumble upon each other, Isabelle murders Spencer.

After feeling satisfied with her revenge, Isabelle begins a deep analysis of her home life, and the insecurities that plague her, coming from such a large family. She has a flashback to a night when she overhears her parents talking to some neighbors about their children. Both parents agree that they have trouble remembering Isabelle, that there isn't anything about her that stands out or is special. Remembering this sends Isabelle over the edge, and continues the mantra "Don't forget…how they made you feel…"

Driven by fury and an attempt to prove to her parents that she is special, that she can win the Program and show them how impressive she can be, Isabelle decides to play, but is eventually removed from the running by a more capable contestant.

**Zeke**: The Battle Royale fan makes a good showing, killing several contestants as the game continues. He is also a constant source to bring up the Girl Number 25 Paradigm, which as I stated before is important. He fights and kills and relishes in the hunt. I planned for him to team up with someone at some point in the game, but could never settle on whom and for how long.

Zeke's abilities and know-how of the game carry him to the final four, but he is killed by Hank soon after.

**Hank**: Hank is one of the main antagonists of the story, but despite his bloodthirsty nature, I attempted to humanize him to a certain degree. This was mostly done through flashback to significant times in his childhood as he was raised by Silas. We learn that even assassins have a code of conduct, and that Hank sees the Program just like he sees any other assignment – as just a job.

Hank always asks his victims if they have anything to confess before they die, and this method allows for some intense moments that I could portray before a character met his or her end. Hank makes it to the final two, but is fatally wounded by Lucy and eventually dies due to his wounds. However, before his death, Hank himself is asked if he has anything to confess, and his confession is that he is afraid to die. He is cradled and sung to as the boy passes away.

**Jillian/Kristy/Raymond/Lucy**: It is thought that Lucy is Jillian, however, this is not the case. As she says, Jillian sleepwalks when under stress, and this is the explanation to her lapses in time. The bloody bat that is close to her when Kristy discovers her, was dropped by Lucy, who then awoke as her host body, Kristy, and then returned to find Jillian waking up from a trance, the bat nearby.

Jillian is an avid player of the game, but she eventually falls to Kristy (in Lucy form) when it is revealed whom Lucy is.

Kristy is Lucy. Her anti-anxiety medication is actually medication to suppress Lucy's emergence. As a child, Kristy had an imaginary friend named Lucy, whom she blamed for her mistakes and attempted to get extra sweets ("Lucy needs a cookie too!"). However, one day, Hank shows up with Silas. Under Silas' order, Hank takes Kristy outside to spare her what will happen to the girl's mother at the hands of Silas, but Hank brings the girl back just in time to see her mother tortured and killed.

Kristy goes into shock, and Lucy is created as a defense mechanism. Through more flashbacks, Kristy enters therapy and deals with Lucy's more aggressive, amoral nature. In one scene, we realize that Kristy wakes up and three years has gone by, during which time Lucy has been in complete control, and learning various forms of martial arts, gun handling, and knife fighting. As a last resort, Kristy is placed in a hypnotic state to forget Lucy completely, as well as the traumatic memories of her mother's death, and the "anti-anxiety" medication is used to keep Kristy balanced and in control.

Raymond, Kristy's boyfriend, is the Night Watcher, who is sitting on the top of a tall tree, far removed from the Program. When he recognizes Kristy's scream, he climbs down to help and the two spend some time together. However, Lucy eventually takes control and either kills Raymond, or chases him off to be killed by some other player.

With nothing left, Kristy tries to harness Lucy's knowledge of fighting in order to protect herself from the other major contenders still present in the game. Finding a sense of wholeness, Kristy manages to do the unthinkable – defeat Hank one on one. She wounds him and he runs off, only to die moments later of the deep wounds.

Kristy is the winner of the Program.

**Leslie/Lisa**: Remember how I said the Girl Number 25 Paradigm was important? Miss Smith comes out of the school to greet Kristy as the victor, but there's someone else in the playing field. Miss Smith is revealed to be Lisa, the girl who followed Leslie as the second Girl #25 to win the Program. Leslie, in contrast, has been active in the playing field, trying to smuggle out contestants right before they die, or before they succumb to their wounds. It is Leslie who eases Hank's death at the end of the story. I thought playing with the names (Leslie, Lisa, Lucy) was a fun way to end this story.

Lisa has been dying her hair blonde and trying to pass herself off as Leslie. Leslie has, in turn, dyed her hair black so as not to be recognized. Remember the short scene at the end of chapter 6 – there's a black haired woman on the mountain top without a collar. The idea was that the audience was supposed to think it was Joy (who had removed her collar due to a malfunction), but it was repeatedly mentioned that Joy (and her brother) both have red hair. That black haired woman is Leslie, sneaking into the Program to save as many lives as she can.

As far as who Leslie saves, I decided to have her save Dwayne (remember, Lucy doesn't outright kill him, she leaves him to die of brain damage). She also manages to break into the town hall while it is on fire and save both Heather and Jacob. As far as other students, I was considering Leslie also saving Phil, Delilah, Bridget, Raymond, Isabelle, Selene, Tabitha, or Felicia. I wasn't planning on having her save that many people, only the few I thought I could pull off given their death scenes, and which I felt the readers would most appreciate.

Leslie and Lisa begin a brawl to settle the score between them. The match seems even until Kristy joins the fray, and helps Leslie kill Miss Smith, before the two disappear, intent on fighting the Program another day.

So, that's the end. I hope that even though this story didn't get finished, you guys at least find some closure in this information that I've been able to give you.

Thanks again.


End file.
